Little Bird
by DragonBlood-Katana
Summary: Gilbert Beilschmidt is stressed, partially because of his anorexic best friend that he's been trying to help, but also partially because of his new patient, Matthew Williams. Matthew is schizophrenic and terrified of so many things it's hard to keep track, some days. But between panic attacks and weeks where the Canadian is all but mute, Gilbert has seen someone who can be revived.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Gilbert's POV

 _This is_ not _how I wanted to start my day._

I sighed softly as I held my best friend's hair out of his face as he vomited what little he had in his stomach. I could feel him shaking, but I didn't know if it was because he was puking or because he was sobbing. I hated getting calls from Francis like I had that morning—at three in the morning, with him in tears saying that he had relapsed. Again.

When he was done, he slumped to the floor, resting his forehead against the edge of the toilet as he cried. I rubbed his back soothingly, murmuring soft words of comfort. I couldn't stand feeling so helpless as I watched him slowly waste away; I was a therapist at a psychiatric hospital for fuck's sake. But I specialized in schizophrenia, not eating disorders, so I had almost no idea what to do to help him.

"Francis, let's get you a glass of water, okay?" I kept my voice soft and he nodded slightly.

I helped him stand up, resisting the urge to flinch as I saw how shaky his legs were. I led him out to the living room and sat him on the couch, half carrying him because he could barely support his own weight. He curled up, hugging his knees tightly against him. My chest felt restricted; it hurt to see Francis so broken when he used to be so confident and amazing.

When I brought him the glass, he took it shakily, grimacing as he took a sip. I would have given him something more substantial, but I knew that he wouldn't have accepted it. It was one of the things that I had learned over the years that Francis had been… well. I didn't want to think about what had caused his current state.

"I'm going to call Toni about this. He needs to know."

Francis hesitated and nodded slowly, looking down in what seemed like shame. I sat down next to him and pulled out my phone, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as I pressed the first emergency contact on my phone, calling Antonio. Francis, Antonio and I had been best friends since middle school, and we were the only two who knew what condition Francis had been in for the better part of a year and a half.

Antonio picked up, and I felt a bit guilty because I had clearly woken him up. "Gil, what are you calling for? It's three in the morning."

I sighed softly and cut my eyes sideways at the blonde beside me. "It's Francis. He relapsed."

"Alright, I'll be over in five. Give him a hug for me, alright?" I could tell that he was instantly awake, and knew that he'd probably be knocking on the door in a lot less than five minutes.

I hung up and leaned over, giving Francis a full-on hug. He looked confused; I wasn't usually a very touchy-feely person.

"That's from Toni. He'll be over soon, okay?"

That got him to smile a bit and he nodded, taking another drink from the glass. I kept my arm around him, trying to give him some sort of comfort. Like I had expected, Antonio was walking into the living room about three minutes after I had called. When it came to Francis, neither of us were ever going to dawdle or mess around. I knew that Antonio and I were going to have a hard time convincing the Frenchman to do what we knew was necessary, but we'd get there eventually. Despite the fact that we both worked at the same place, neither of us had any idea how to help our best friend and it was killing us slowly.

Antonio shot a worried glance at me before rushing to Francis and hugging him tightly. The Spaniard whispered a few words to our friend, but they were too quiet for me to make out. When he pulled away he sat on the other side of Francis, his arm joining mine around his shoulders. My eyes met Toni's green ones and a silent conversation ensued. Well, more like a silent agreement that we needed to get him help immediately.

"Franny," I said gently. "Look, I know you've been trying to get better, and you have. You've been doing fine on your own. But…" I trailed off; I had always been bad with words and I didn't want to hurt Francis with a misplaced phrase.

Luckily, Antonio seemed to know exactly what I was trying to say. "You need more help than just us, Francis. We might be therapists, but we don't know any more about what you're going through than an average person. We don't specialize in helping people like you. But… we do know someone who does."

I silently thanked any deity who was listening that Toni was more delicate with his speech than I ever could be; it was one of the many reasons he specialized in treating depression.

Francis' eyes widened slightly as he caught on to what we were suggesting. He opened his mouth, definitely to protest, but before he could Toni cut in again.

"Look, there's a new therapist who just transferred to where Gil and I work. He had a one hundred percent success rate at the last place he was, and none of them ever had a relapse after seeing him. We promise that if you give him a chance to help you, you'll be perfectly fine afterwards. So, please, Franny… try?"

He hesitated for a few minutes, the tension between the three of us building with every moment of silence. Both my gaze and Antonio's were fixated on Francis' reluctant blue eyes and we both sighed in relief when he nodded slowly. I reached over and wrapped my arms around Francis, hugging him tightly. Antonio did the same, and I was relieved to see the soft smile on the Frenchman's face as he hugged us back.

Francis looked seven shades of nervous as he followed Toni and I into Hetalia Psychiatric Hospital. Antonio went to get him checked in while I walked through the labyrinthine corridors to the office of one certain Brit. He was annoying and loud and was constantly dissing American cuisine despite the fact that he couldn't cook for shit—although, I had to admit that he could bake fairly well—but he was good at his job. Out of all the therapists that treated eating disorders in the facility, as much as I hated to admit it, Arthur Kirkland was probably the most trustworthy in my eyes, and that was why I trusted him with my best friend.

I knocked on the simple wooden door that matched every other door in the place, my hand falling to my side when I heard a chair scrape against the floor. Half a second later, the slightly shorter man opened the door and glared in annoyance at me. "What do you want?"

I sighed; I had completely forgotten that Arthur was anything but a morning person. "There's a patient waiting for you in the front lobby. He's a close friend of mine, and I know you're good at helping people like him, so get your ass out there and help him, dammit." I growled, not in the mood to put up with his shit right then.

He looked surprised, then sighed and nodded. He stepped out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him. "Alright, then, let's go."

I led him back out to the lobby where Antonio had his arm back around Francis' shoulders, murmuring quietly to him. The Frenchman was staring into space, nodding occasionally to whatever Toni was saying.

Both of them looked up as Arthur and I approached, Francis seeming to shrink in on himself a bit when he saw the man behind me. Gently setting a hand on his shoulder, I motioned at Arthur.

"Franny, this is who we were talking about earlier. His name is Arthur Kirkland, and he can help you, okay?"

He nodded and cut his eyes sideways at the aforementioned person, swallowing heavily. A nurse rushed up and whispered something to Antonio that made his eyes widen practically to the size of golf balls. He stood up and hurriedly apologized to us, saying a quick goodbye to Francis and wishing him luck before getting whisked away by the nurse.

I straightened up and ruffled Francis' hair, trying not to cringe at how brittle it felt and doing my utmost to ignore the strands that stuck to my hand when I pulled it away. It was horrible to see Francis reduced to the mostly mute mess he was, but it was hazards of what he had lived with for too long.

"I have to get to work, too, Franny. I'll drop by and visit later, okay?"

He nodded and I walked away after one last forced smile, trying to ignore the crushing weight of the guilt sitting on my chest. I didn't want to leave Francis to deal with Arthur's evil morning personality, but I didn't have any other option. I had a shit ton of paperwork to do and, according to one of my colleagues, Alfred, I was also getting a new patient that day. Which, to be honest, would be a relief. I had been mostly dealing with small two- or three-day stays for several months and it was getting old. That and a long-term patient would get my mind off Francis.

Even so, I couldn't help but wonder what new surprises would be in store for me with the arrival of another person who had been through hell and back.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Matthew's POV

The shadows scared me.

I had never been particularly fond of the dark; the thought that something could be lurking just out of sight, out of reach, wasn't exactly comforting when you were a five-year-old with nothing but a little yellow canary plushy and the pounding of rain against the foster home window to comfort you. But by the time I was twenty, the dark meant so, so much more to me.

Darkness meant fear. Darkness meant pain. Darkness meant that it was going to be so, so much worse than it had been before. Darkness meant screaming until my throat was raw and sore and I couldn't so much as speak the next day. But more than anything, darkness meant red. So, so much red. In my nightmares, I drowned in seas of red, tortured shrieks and maniac laughs echoing in my ears.

I didn't sleep often, because sleep brought darkness and sleep brought nightmares. Sometimes, though, my nightmares crept into my waking moments, sending me into panic attack after panic attack until someone _finally_ noticed that I wasn't able to do much more than sob and sent someone to give me a sedative and calm me down. Usually they sent in Elizaveta, which I didn't mind so much. She was nice; she looked at me like I was a person instead of some traumatized victim, even if she couldn't remember my name most of the time. Which, yes, I supposed I was, but I didn't like that everyone knew it.

But I could still see them. All my demons, twisted shadowed forms made of my memories and my fears, just waiting to strike when no one could help me. My adoptive brother, Alfred, he called it schizophrenia, but I just called it hell.

After almost two and a half years of darkness, pain, and red, red, red everywhere, my older brother, Alfred, had found me and brought me to a hospital. I had spent a month and a half there, wondering what I was going to do when I got out, before Alfred had come to me looking guilty as I had ever seen him. I couldn't find the words to ask what was wrong, and I hadn't needed to try. He had said almost immediately that he had had me admitted into a psychiatric hospital and that I would be transferred there as soon as the doctors cleared me to leave. At first I was mad, but eventually I had understood why he had done it.

I knew it couldn't have been easy for him. We were never exactly close, but he still considered me his brother. I couldn't imagine how much it was hurting him to see me in that state. Which is how, two months after he saved me from hell, I found myself walking through the doors of Hetalia Psychiatric Hospital, one hand clutched tightly to my brother's sleeve and one grasping the handle of the small bag of clothes I carried with me. There was almost too much white at the hospital, and I had expected my new temporary home to be the same. On the other hand, I had been pleasantly surprised when I found that the walls had been painted a pale blue instead of white. The softness of the color was somehow calming and I felt myself relaxing a bit.

I sat nervously in one of the dark green plastic chairs to the side of the lobby as one of Alfred walked up to the receptionist—a woman with short platinum blonde hair held out of her face by a white headband, blue eyes that bordered on being teal, and the biggest boobs I had ever seen—and checked me in.

When he was done, he led me silently through the corridors, his footsteps echoing dully off the soft blue walls. We stopped in front of a plain door, wooden and polished until it gleamed. I had noticed that all doors in the facility were the same, with the exception of the name engraved onto the small iron plaque in the face of the door. That one read _G. Beilschmidt,_ and I could only assume that it was the name of the person who was going to be my therapist.

Alfred raised a hand to the door—his skin tan and unscarred, unlike mine—and knocked once. The response was almost immediate, and the strangest looking man I had ever seen answered the door. He was almost as pale as me, which was saying something, and his hair was shockingly white. But what hit me hardest were his eyes. They were a deep, dark, ruby red.

Red…

Red.

 _Red._

I almost had a panic attack right there. Images of that same horrible _red_ were flashing through my memory as fast as water through a strainer, red, red, red, red, _red, red everywhere._ Knives, bright white teeth, dark hair, dark shadows, dark rooms, fear, pain, absolute burning agony. All it took to relive it all in an instant was a flash of those eyes.

I could barely breathe and I squeezed my eyes shut, clenching my hands tighter around the bag. Suddenly someone was touching me, their hands on my shoulder. They weren't gripping me hard, but I could feel the phantom pain of their fingers digging into my flesh, tearing and ripping, and the blood was dripping down my back—

I stumbled backward, ripping from their grasp, and fell to the floor. I had dropped my bag at some point, so my hands were free to go straight to my arms. I dug my nails into my arms, the burn of the friction bringing me back to the present just enough to hear a heavily accented voice telling someone else to get something, but I was quickly lost again in the swirl of memories.

My eyes flew open. I was back in that room, that pitch black room full of shadows. And one was right in front of me, that dark, dark, dark demon with that bright white grin. A metallic glint ran along the edge of the knife in its hands, and suddenly my hands weren't clawing at my arms anymore and I couldn't tell if the warmth I felt trickling down them was blood or something else. Something soft and warm was in my arms and I curled around it, pressing my face into the fuzz. Somehow it made the demon fade, and the light started creeping back into my consciousness. I became aware of the tears dripping from my chin and whimpered softly, clutching the still-unidentified fuzzy thing in my arms just a little tighter. It was a somehow comforting to have something like that to hold and know that you couldn't wring the life out of it no matter how hard you squeezed.

I looked up, my breathing steadier but still a bit ragged. Two sets of worried eyes, one bright blue and huge behind a set of glasses and one the color of the blood dripping off my fingers and onto the floor, watched me cautiously.

"Hey, now, it's alright. Didn't mean to scare you. Are you alright?" That voice didn't match that color. That voice was kind, gentle, caring, tinged with legitimate concern and an accent that sounded German. That color meant the return of the demon that breathed down my neck.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, nodding softly. I heard a soft sigh of relief and a smile in that voice when it started talking again. "Okay. Let's get your arms bandaged and then we can try again, 'kay?"

I nodded again and opened my eyes, only to shut them again. That time, though, it was because the hall had begun spinning, not because it was hard to look the albino—that's what I assumed, at least, because why would someone want their eyes to be that color of their own free will?—in the eye. It was only when a hand reached out to steady me that I realized that I was swaying unsteadily. _Shit._ Panic attacks exhausted me, and more often than not I passed out afterwards. _What a great first impression I'm making. I'm sure he's labeled me as hopeless by now._

I pulled away from the touch on my arm, whimpering softly in fear. After two and a half years of living in the shadows, I balked at physical contact. Every time someone touched me, even if I knew it was to comfort me or steady me in some way, I could feel the phantom pain of the possibility that it wasn't as gentle as it seemed. I just didn't want to hurt anymore.

I vaguely heard someone telling me to stay awake, and someone that I thought was Alfred calling my name. I tried to respond, but I couldn't find my voice. That happened a lot; it was hard for me to speak after being told for so long that my voice wasn't needed. That _I_ wasn't needed.

They kept talking, but it was like I was hearing it from underwater. Everything seemed distorted and unintelligible. I could make out short phrases like "stay awake" and my name, but not much else. I felt myself let go of my consciousness and sank into that foreboding blackness, collapsing forward into warm, strong arms.

I knew that no matter how strong or brave someone was, no one could beat that demon. No one could take me away from the shadows that had had a death grip on me for so long. I had given up hope of freedom a long, long time ago.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Gilbert's POV

It was confusing. I didn't know how to react to the person curled up on the makeshift couch that was really just a stack of beanbag chairs in my office, fast asleep with the white polar bear plushy that Roderich had given me a few months before we broke up clutched in his arms. I had wrapped bandages around his arms and cleaned the scratch marks on them, a bit disturbed by the scars—some pink and freshly headed and some silver and clearly a few months old—ran from his shoulder to his wrist. It was always hard to see people who self-harmed so horribly, knowing my own history with scars, but he hadn't even said a word to me before he freaked out. I had seen a lot as an inpatient psychiatrist, but I had never had someone have a panic attack at the mere sight of me. Maybe something about my albinism had triggered him? I had no idea. Alfred had explained a little bit to me, but had gotten edgy and evasive when I asked exactly what had happened. I could understand that; it wasn't exactly Alfred's story to tell. He had, however, given me enough information to be thoroughly interested in said story. Apparently, my patient's name was Matthew and he was Alfred's little brother. He was violently schizophrenic—that much was obvious after the little episode in the hall—and didn't speak much. I didn't know how severe his selective mutism was; Alfred had been less than helpful in that department. "Not much" could have meant anything from he just didn't talk to people he had known for less than a day to he didn't talk at all.

My musings were interrupted by the rustling of the beanbag chairs. I looked up from my desk and found Matthew looking around frantically, his eyes wide in what looked like fear.

"Oh, you're awake," I kept my voice low and gentle so as not to scare him. The last thing I wanted was to send him into another panic attack.

His entire body stiffened and he turned toward me almost faster than I could register. His eyes were a bit unfocused, like he was still half asleep. I stood up and grabbed his glasses; I had set them on my desk so that they wouldn't fall off in his sleep.

I slowly approached him, worried by how he stumbled backward until his back hit the wall. He sank down to the floor and curled around the polar bear, looking up at me with absolute terror in his eyes. I couldn't help but feel horrible for him; he had obviously been through something absolutely horrifying.

I crouched down in front of him and held out the glasses, smiling softly. "Are you looking for these?"

Matthew studied my face hesitantly for a few moments before reaching out for his glasses. He snatched them away from me quickly, like he was afraid that I'd try to keep them away from him. I did notice that he was very careful not to let his hand touch mine, like he was afraid of skin-to-skin contact. _Well, it's definitely possible._ I had had plenty of patients who had been wary of physical contact; it wasn't exactly uncommon in my line of work.

He put his glasses on his face with shaky hands before going back to twisting his fingers in the fake fur of the plushy in his arms. Matthew blinked a few times before his eyes flitted away from my face.

"Do you feel better now?"

He nodded slightly, still avoiding eye contact. He curled up a bit tighter, squeezing the stuffed animal so hard that I thought he might pop a seam.

"Let's try introductions again, how about?" I grinned as he buried his face in the fuzz out of—by the small blush spreading over his cheeks—what seemed to be embarrassment.

"Hey, now. No need to be embarrassed. I've witnessed plenty of panic attacks, even had a few myself. Not fun, are they?"

He looked surprised that his therapist would have ever had a panic attack, but hey, my teenage years were stressful. Mostly because I had been an idiot and a complete jackass, but whatever.

He shook his head in response to my question and his grip on the bear loosened just a bit. I held back a grin; it was nice to know that he could relax at least a little. Because if he could start to relax, then I could get him to trust me and I could heal him. Take it from me, there was no better feeling than being able to set someone back on their feet in society after they had been through their own personal hell—or, in some cases, hells, plural.

I held out my hand for him to shake, trying to see if he would take it. He didn't, but then again, I hadn't expected to. He seemed to flinch away from any physical contact, so I withdrew my hand and simply smiled.

"My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt. You're Matthew, right?"

He nodded, hesitantly, and I could see in his eyes that he was wondering how I knew his name. I decided to give him an explanation; it really wasn't that big a secret anyway.

"Your brother told me your name. He also said you don't talk much, right?"

He sighed softly through his nose and nodded, rolling his eyes a bit. I didn't blame him; I would be pretty fed up if I had a brother like Alfred, too. Luckily for me, my little bro, Ludwig, was the most awesome brother anyone could want. Of course, talking to him was basically like talking to a wall, but hey, no one is perfect.

"Don't worry; you don't have to talk if you don't want to. There are plenty of other ways for us to communicate. But let's leave the serious stuff for tomorrow, _ja?_ For now, how does ice cream sound?"

He looked surprised but smiled ever so slightly, nodding again. I didn't miss the soft gleam of excitement in his eyes at the mention of sweets and I mentally filed that away for later. Not that I was surprised; Roderich kept a mini freezer full of sweets for whenever his patients were stressed. I had to admit, it worked like a charm.

I stood up and didn't offer my hand, knowing that it would probably just make the situation awkward for Matthew again. He stood as well, still clutching the bear to his chest, albeit much less tightly than before; I was certain that there was no more danger of the poor thing's head being popped off.

I led the way to Roderich's office, finding it endearing how he trailed behind me like a lost baby bird. I knocked on the door, hoping that he wasn't in session with his Cuban patient. The man honestly scared me; he gave off a vibe that screamed _dangerous._ Luckily, it was only an exasperated Austrian who answered.

"What is it, Gilbert?" he huffed and I grinned cheekily.

"We need to steal some of your ice cream, Roddy,"

Confusion passed over his face and he looked behind me as if searching for something. "We? I don't see anyone with you."

I furrowed my eyebrows and looked to the side. Matthew was clearly standing right next to me; he was a bit behind me but definitely not enough to be obscured from Roderich's view. "What do you mean? Matthew's right here."

Roderich's eyes widened when he saw Matthew and he looked like he had just seen a ghost. "Ah—sorry. I didn't see you there."

Matthew just gave a half-hearted shrug, but I could see the lingering sadness in his eyes. I couldn't help but wonder if him not being noticed was a regular thing for him.

Roderich stepped aside and let us in. Still a bit miffed that he hadn't noticed Matthew, I went straight to the freezer and opened it. I turned to Matthew and smiled a bit, gesturing at the contents. "Take your pick,"

He scanned the labels for a moment before his face lit up and he grabbed a maple pecan ice cream and held it to his chest between him and the plushy, not seeming to mind the cold. I chuckled softly at his eagerness and grabbed a random one, since I liked all of the flavors Roderich had.

Matthew and I went back to my own office and sat on a beanbag chair each, about five feet apart from each other. There was a small smile on his face as he ate the ice cream, like it was some sort of rarity. Then again, he was so skinny that it was possible that he didn't get much to eat. It wasn't exactly uncommon for me to see someone who was dreadfully malnourished walk through my office door. Schizophrenia could to horrible, horrible things to a person, and sometimes its cause was just as bad for their mental health as the disorder itself.

I did most—well, all—of the talking, but I didn't mind. I knew that the first day was always the hardest on the patients. I could understand why; I was sure that being admitted into a place like that wasn't pleasant when most of them already felt like they were estranged from the rest of society. I was certain that it would be worse for someone as seemingly traumatized as Matthew.

As I watched one of the nurses, a Finnish man named Tino Väinämöinen, lead him off, I couldn't help but wonder if I could manage to help Matthew out of the deep, dark hole he lived in.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Matthew's POV

The door shut behind Tino and I sighed softly, unable to resist the soft smile that sprang to my face. I wasn't used to that feeling. The feeling of not being told to _just talk already,_ the feeling of actually being noticed. What had happened with the other man, Roderich—that was normal. Not many—or, really, any—people noticed me right off the bat, and yet Gilbert had. Only one other person had done that and it had turned out to be the worst encounter of my life. Yes, that made me a little weary, but it had still made a warmth that I hadn't felt in a long, long time blossom in my chest when Gilbert had been obviously mad when his friend hadn't noticed me. The ice cream had been nice, too; it had been years since I had had the luxury of food that wasn't absolutely necessary to keep me alive. It was nice that he simply hadn't cared. He hadn't cared that I didn't like talking, at least not until I trusted him a lot more. He hadn't cared that he had had to bandage my arms and watch over me when I passed out and scratched my arms to the point that they bled. He had even gone so far as to be _kind_ to me. That wasn't something I was used to. No one had found it necessary to be anywhere near considerate to me like Gilbert was for what felt like lifetimes. Of course, I knew it had only been a few years, but still… when time seemed to be held in place by chains of pain and fear, it was easy to forget it was there like most people forgot about me. Time had barely passed for me for quite a while, and I hadn't had it in me to care. At that point, all that I had had the ability to spare thoughts for was when it would end. When the pain would stop. When I wouldn't have to live in constant fear. When the glint of metal, whether from a car or a wheelchair or a knife, would stop sending me into panic attacks. When I would be able to eat like a normal person because my body had stopped being so malnourished that it would survive by practically digesting itself. When the color _red_ would once again just be another color, not a symbol of my suffering. When dark hair and a twisted Spanish accent wouldn't signal the start of my journey through the next circle of hell. I never bothered with numbers; I always lost track around thirty. I found it interesting how enough animalistic terror could make everything else flee with its tail between its legs like a frightened rabbit.

Then again, I didn't think that many people experienced that kind of pure instinct. At least, I hoped not. What I had been through I did not wish on anyone, so I felt sorry for those who had been through even similar experiences. I couldn't help but wonder, though, if Gilbert could put me back together. I knew I was broken and shattered to the point of being useless; that was why Alfred had dumped me there. I didn't blame him, though; I could understand not wanting to take care of me. I knew that I would just be a burden, and it hurt, but I had accepted it. After all, being a deadweight was what had landed me in my situation in the first place. I had hated it, but I knew deep down that I had deserved it. I knew that I couldn't be fixed, even if I had been freed. It was just a matter of time until Gilbert got tired of me and sent me off to some other therapist because he didn't want to deal with my baggage anymore. I wondered if that would be how I spent the rest of my pitiful life; being tossed from therapist to therapist like a soccer ball.

A sharp pain in my arm drew me out of my thoughts. I looked down and my heart sunk through the floor when I found that my nails had dug into a small space of skin between the bandages and ripped open my arm. Blood was staining the white and I quickly averted my sight to avoid another panic attack. The last thing I needed was to bother Gilbert again with the news that I had freaked out yet again. I already felt like enough of a burden with the two—well, one and a half, since Gilbert had somehow managed to pull me out of the second one before it really got underway—that I had already had. I didn't want to speed up the inevitable process of Gilbert getting tired of me. I knew that it was going to happen; everyone would get tired of taking care of me eventually. I was betting against myself; giving it at most two weeks before Gilbert dumped me on someone else.

I sighed shakily and sat on the bed, surprised at how nice they were. The blankets were soft and warm, and I could tell that I would at least be comfortable as I watched the shadows move and hoped that none of my demons would pop out of the darkness. Still, maybe I would be able to get some sleep.

I took my shoes off, smiling ever so slightly as I set them on the floor. I found that I was right as I laid down and pulled the blankest up to my shoulders; the mattress was soft and springy and the pure warmth almost sent me to sleep. I hadn't been truly warm in a long time; the concrete and metal that had surrounded me for so long had always been cold. My body heat hadn't warmed it up, and it seemed to leech the heat out of the red that splashed and stained darkly against the red. According to Alfred, I had been suffering from almost life-threatening hypothermia by the time that he had found me. Some days, I wished that the cold _had_ taken me, and that way I wouldn't have been able to poison anyone else's lives. Alfred wouldn't be dealing with my hospital bills—which I was certain were for monumental amounts of money that he just didn't have. Gilbert would be able to be helping someone else who he actually had a chance of fixing. The police wouldn't have to be dealing with figuring out what to do with me if, by some miracle, I could be taped together just enough to be sent back into society. Everyone would just be better off if I had died. If one of those knives had cut just a bit too deep. If Alfred had found me just a few days later. If I had lost just a little more blood.

A quiet voice in the back of my mind said that I was wrong. That I wouldn't be better off dead; that Gilbert could help me if I gave him the chance. That voice sounded vaguely like me; like it was my own thoughts instead of the other ones that Alfred told me were part of my schizophrenia. It was quickly drowned out, though, by a much louder, more violent voice telling me that I was useless, worthless, a waste of everyone's space and time. That one was deep and carried that hellish accent.

I whimpered, covering my ears and shaking my head as if I could hide from the words echoing through my own my own head. "No! No, I'm not!"

 _Yes, you are, you little bitch. You should just finish what I started._ One shadow in the corner of the room seemed to move and I flinched, pressing my back against the wall.

"No! I won't! I won't, I won't, I won't! I won't listen to you!" I moaned miserably, curling in on myself.

Another shadow shifted and my eyes flicked back and forth frantically, my nails digging into the soft flesh around my ears as if I could physically tear my living nightmare from my head.

 _I will find you, you know. There's no hiding._

I made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a whine as I saw the flash of metal from the corner of my eyes. Suddenly my wrists and ankles felt heavy and sore, pain searing through them every time I moved. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I was just imagining it, that it was all in my head, but that didn't make it any less terrifying.

I sat there until I passed out, my throat raw from crying, my muscles sore from constant tension, tears drying on my face, my head aching from the intensity of the voices, and my eyes burning because I hadn't dared blink. As I collapsed on the pillows, I knew one thing for certain.

No matter how much Gilbert tried, no matter how close to success he got, the voices' attacks on me would just shatter me all over again.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Gilbert's POV

"What the hell am I supposed to do for him? He refuses to do anything but flirt!" Arthur growled, his huge caterpillar-eyebrows scrunching together.

I sighed and ran my hands over my face. Francis was resisting Arthur, despite the number of times that Antonio had visited and tried to get him to work with the Brit instead of against him in the last few days. Between making zero progress with Matthew and Francis' annoying stubbornness, the last week had been stressful, to say the least. And then Arthur had cornered me to say that he wanted to transfer Francis to another therapist.

God _dammit._

I sighed again and shook my head. I couldn't bring myself to give Arthur Francis' full story; it wasn't my secret to tell. But still, I couldn't let Arthur just _give up._ I knew his reputation, and I knew that he had had worse patients than Francis. I couldn't just let Francis be transferred to someone else when I knew for a fact that the damned Brit, annoying as he was, could help him.

"Honestly, the idiot doesn't even have any issues! The bloody frog—"

I slammed my hand into the wall next to his head, my eyes narrowing. He looked almost scared, like he had never seen me mad. Which, when I thought about it, I didn't think he had. Either way, I couldn't just let him say that sort of shit about my best friend.

"Do not _ever_ call him that, especially not to his face. Understand? _Ever."_ I growled, not giving a damned that he looked absolutely terrified.

"Well why not? It's what he—"

I cut him off again. "Don't. Let's just say that that's one of the reasons that he's here in the first place, okay? He's flirting with you because he's _afraid,_ dammit. Get over yourself and help him, or so help me, I will find a way to make your life a living hell. Got it?"

He nodded, looking pale, and I stormed off, gnawing angrily on my lower lip. I couldn't remember the last time I had been so pissed, but hearing Arthur call Francis that had basically pressed all my buttons down at once and just made me mad. For being such a successful therapist, I didn't understand how he was so callous and insensitive. I knew I could be pretty damned dense—not as dense as Antonio, mind you, he couldn't read a situation if it was staring him in his happy Spanish face—but still. Arthur worked with anorexic people, for god's sake. One would think that he'd learn a little delicacy over the years.

I sighed heavily, closing the door behind me. Setting myself carefully down in my chair, I felt exhaustion wash over me. I had been, as Francis put it, working myself to the bone, not that I could help it. There was something about Matthew's eyes, so strange with their pale violet coloring, that drew me in and kept me hooked, wanting to find the secret behind his silence and his lack of presence. There was something beautifully fragile about him, like an orchid. If he wasn't taken care of properly, he would wilt and break and someone had obviously treated him horribly so it was up to me to nurse him back to health, no matter what it would take.

I looked up as the lights flickered, glancing out the window. Rain was pounding on the glass and the sky was dark with clouds that blotted out the view of the rising moon. It had been another late night, I realized, noting that the clock read 11:25 P.M. In the distance, lightning flashed among the buildings and I could hear the crash of thunder.

I spent the next half hour doing paperwork and trying desperately not to fall asleep. I hated paperwork with a pink and purple passion, but it came with the job. I was pulled out of my loathing and away from the urge to start a bonfire with the paper by a scream that echoed through the complex and sent shivers down my spine. I set down my pen and looked toward the door, worried about Matthew. I was worried that that had been him, screaming like his very soul was being torn out. Since he hadn't said a word to me since his arrival, I didn't know any of his triggers or fears. For all I know, thunderstorms could turn him into a terrified puddle of tears and blood.

 _Wouldn't that just be great._

The lights flickered again and the door to my office slammed open. Lo and behold, there was Matthew, his face paler than usual and his grip on the polar bear plushy was so tight that the tips of his fingers and his knuckles were white.

I stood up and took a couple steps forward, worried by how he flinched away.

"Matthew? Are you alright?" Being a therapist obviously didn't mean that I couldn't as pointless questions; he was clearly not alright.

Even so, Matthew didn't seem calm enough to really care. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and whimpering ever so slightly as lightning flickered again, closer. I gently motioned him forward, shutting the door and having him sit in a nest of beanbag chairs. He obeyed mechanically, not meeting my gaze. His eyes looked dull, almost empty, like he wasn't completely with me. I wondered what hellish memory he was reliving.

The screaming started again and Matthew flinched, clamping his hands over his ears. At least I knew it wasn't him. The lights flickered and went out, only turning back on after a moment of baited breath. When the yellow glow returned, Matthew looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. For that matter, he probably was. It didn't seem to take much to trigger him.

I grabbed a pair of blankets from the bottom drawer of my desk and wrapped one around Matthew, taking the other for myself. Aware of the fact that he seemed to fear physical touch—a trigger that would probably be much worse under the circumstances—I made sure not to even so much as brush him with a finger as I gave him the blanket. He accepted it gratefully, pulling it tightly around him before pressing his face into the faux fur of the polar bear. He had taken a liking to the stuffed animal and I had let him keep it since it seemed to keep him somewhat calmer. He had barely let go of it since.

As an afterthought, I pulled out a flashlight and a package of spare AA batteries, just in case. It turned out to be a good idea, since as soon as I sat back down the lights flickered and went out, not coming back on. I fumbled for the switch on the flashlight and found it, nearly blinding myself when I flicked it on. I quickly turned it toward Matthew, careful to make sure it stayed out of his eyes, and the light caught the streams of tears rolling down his cheeks. He was rocking back and forth, chanting something under his breath that was probably supposed to calm him down but was failing miserably. The light seemed to help though; he relaxed just a bit.

"Matthew, it's alright. You'll be alright, I promise." I said, my voice soft and soothing. He nodded, though he didn't seem to believe me, and opened his eyes.

I almost got lost in that strange color. The only reason I didn't was because they were shining with still-falling tears and they looked so lifeless that my chest tightened painfully. I didn't know how to help, and it was killing me.

He whimpered again as thunder crashed. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to do what had worked before. I started talking. Gossiping, really, but it had calmed him down from the edge of a panic attack before so I figured it would do it again. I talked about meaningless things, things that were absolutely pointless to say but I said them anyway. It worked like a charm and slowly, ever so slowly, Matthew started to calm down. I couldn't hold back a soft smile when the life began to return to his eyes as my words drew him out of the nightmare that was nothing more than a memory but still impacted him on a daily basis. Eventually, I coaxed him to sleep. He looked so peaceful and calm like that, his blond hair spread out on the beanbags and his entire body relaxed. His breathing was slow and even, his chest rising and falling lightly. He still clutched that stuffed bear but it made him seem more innocent, even childlike.

I chuckled softly and gently removed his glasses, careful not to wake him. I set them on my desk so that they wouldn't get crushed and readjusted the blanket around him. He smiled ever so slightly in his sleep and I couldn't help but noticed the simple change in expression made it seem like there was still hope. It was hard, yes, but I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that Matthew could still be helped. He seemed small, fragile, even, yes, but he was like my pet, Gilbird. He was most likely—no, definitely stronger than he appeared at first glance.

I laid down on my own pile of beanbag chairs, letting exhaustion finally shove me into the dark abyss that was sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Matthew's POV

When I woke up, I was strangely warm. I couldn't resist snuggling into the mysterious source. It was kind of hard, but not uncomfortable, and it was moving in a slow, relaxing, almost hypnotic way—

Wait. _Moving?_

I opened my eyes and squeaked quietly when I was met with the sight of a black t-shirt. I looked up to find that I was curled up against a still-asleep Gilbert, one arm hung loosely over my side. I could feel the blush that spread across my face as I realized that I had most likely fallen asleep in his arms. I couldn't remember much of the previous night except thunder and terror and darkness. There were little flashes that I could sort of recall: a blanket being wrapped around my shoulders, warmth, words lulling me to sleep.

I swallowed heavily and pulled away a bit, hugging the stuffed polar bear a bit closer. For some reason, Gilbert's touch didn't hurt like those of others did. Most touch, even the lightest brush of skin, burned and left imaginary imprints for hours or even days. Contact with Gilbert still burned, yes, but it was gentle and almost pleasant; a slow burn.

I shook my head and pulled away, Gilbert's arm flopping down onto the beanbag chairs. I curled up as far away from his as I could get without being on the floor—hey, the floor was uncomfortable and cold—and looked back over.

He seemed to be a heavy sleeper, unlike me; I woke up at even the slightest sound most of the time. He looked peaceful and happy, as if having a good dream. I was glad that at least one of us could go a night without nightmares.

And yet, last night, I had slept easily; dreamlessly. It was strange. Maybe it had just been the stress of a near-panic attack and the thunderstorm taking its toll, but somehow I doubted it. Gilbert's voice was calm and soothing, his thick German accent softening his words rather than sharpening them. Nothing at all like the accent my demon carried.

Gilbert shifted and I froze, irrational fear filling my head. Gilbert was not the shadow, was not my demon, but he carried that same air of almost alluring, arrogant confidence that had landed me in hell in the first place. His eyes were disconcerting; that same shade of red that haunted my nightmares and my horrific illusions. They seemed to look straight into my soul, as if he could read every thought and feeling of mine in a single glance.

Wasn't that a fun thought. My mind was a dark and twisted place, filled with jagged ruins and vicious shadows. I didn't want to let anyone see that because that was the place that all my demons lived.

Some days, even I couldn't stand to be in my own head.

I sighed quietly and closed my eyes, knowing that I couldn't go anywhere without my glasses. I was only about three feet away from Gilbert, but any further than that turned into a mess of fuzzy outlines and colors. There was almost no possibility of me getting back to my room without glasses, much less getting back without a few extra bruises to add to the list of things wrong with me. I'd just have to wait until Gilbert woke up and gave them to me.

Luckily, I didn't have to wait long. I didn't know how long it had been—my sense of time had been completely messed up with the years I had spent with nothing but darkness for company—but it didn't seem like too long before he groaned and shifted, opening his eyes. Without my glasses, I could almost pretend that they were a darker shade of pink. Almost.

He blinked a few times before realizing that I was watching and grinned. It wasn't malicious, but the sight still sent shivers down my spine. No matter how different they were, there were still similarities that I couldn't get past.

"Feeling better? You looked like hell last night." I winced a bit at Gilbert's wording; I could only imagine how I had looked when I had burst through his office door, scared out of my mind. It wasn't a pleasant image.

He stood and walked over to his desk, picking something up. I flinched as I heard the clink of metal before I realized that he was just handing me my glasses. Déjà vu hit me, bringing memories of the first time I had woken up dazed and confused in his office. It wasn't a good thing, but it wasn't exactly horrible to wake up to bright lights instead of more blackness either.

I took the glasses and slid them on, blinking as the world came into focus. Like the rest of the hospital, the walls were painted a soft baby blue. The desk was standard, semi-polished wood, though I could tell it had been used what with the nicks in the edges and the way the wood was chipping away toward the bottom of the legs. There were flags tacked up around the room with black plastic push-pins; Prussian flags of various sizes. It was a bit odd, but so was Gilbert himself. On the wall behind the desk was a cork bulletin board, filled with drawings that looked like they were made by elementary schoolers.

Gilbert must have noticed the direction of my gaze, because he chuckled fondly. "There's a minors ward on the second floor. I'll go up there every now and then and apparently my albinism gives me instant favor with them."

He laughed softly and I smiled; or at least, what passed for a smile from me, meaning a tiny upward twitch of the corners of my mouth. Still, he caught it and smiled back. I had been studying to be a teacher—preferably third or fourth grade—before everything else had happened. If I ever got out of there—and for me, it was definitely a matter of _if_ rather than _when_ —I was hoping that I would still be able to go back to school. Unfortunately, I didn't know what had become of my savings account, so I had no idea if that was even possible.

"Do you like kids?" it was like Gilbert could tell when my thoughts were spiraling back down into my hell, because he always pulled me back to the reality with a question or another story. It was nice.

I nodded, opening my mouth slightly to try and see if I could say anything. I had been trying for days to get up the courage to speak, but the memories of my demon's whispered words always came back to me and blocked the words in my throat. I could taste the words—every syllable, every letter—on my tongue and I was almost able to tell him out loud. But then that voice, those words, came back and forced them back down my throat. _Shut up; your voice is so annoying._

My voice shriveled up and died again and I couldn't help a soft huff of frustration. I wanted to be able to speak, I wanted to talk to Gilbert, but for the life of me I just _couldn't._ I hated it so much. I hated being so absolutely fucked up that I couldn't even bear to talk.

"Maybe one of these days I'll take you up there, if you want," I smiled again and nodded shyly, softly threading my fingers through the long white fur of the stuffed polar bear in my arms. For some reason, having something soft and cuddle-able constantly around calmed me down quite a bit. I didn't know why, but who was I to complain if it kept me from having a panic attack every few seconds. In a way, it reminded me of the yellow canary plushy I had loved as a child.

Gilbert had clearly noticed my affection for the bear. "You seem to like that an awful lot. Maybe you should name it."

I knew it was a joke, but I took the opportunity to try to force myself to answer. I begged the dark voices inside my head to let me speak. For once, I had enough willpower to push through the damned wall that I had put up to try to please the wrong person and I finally, _finally,_ said something.

"Kumajiro,"

Gilbert's eyes—the same shade of red that I feared and hated but somehow didn't send me straight to the memories in the darkest part of my mind as long as it was from him—widened. He looked absolutely shocked that I had spoken, and to be honest, I sort of was, too.

"W-what?" the surprise in his voice was clear through his stutter.

"Kumajiro. Or Kuma."

My voice was soft but you could've heard a feather hit the floor with as silent as it was.

He grinned, obviously excited, and nodded. "That's awesome,"

I couldn't help but chuckle a little. It felt like things could maybe, just maybe, get better.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Gilbert's POV

It had been a few days since Matthew had finally— _finally_ —spoken, and the excitement still hadn't worn off. He and I had talked for hours and hours about mindless things, pointless things, and it had been fine. He was still making progress.

In the beginning, I could see how much Matthew struggled to speak, and his voice was scratchy with lack of use. But as time went on, his voice cleared and he fought with himself less and less when he started a sentence or even a word.

I decided to make good on my promise and got all the paperwork signed and shit so that I could take him with me to the minor's ward. I figured that he wasn't anywhere near volatile enough to cause an issue, and if anything, the kids were more likely to send him into a panic attack than vice versa.

Matthew seemed a bit more nervous than usual as we rode up the elevator to the second floor of the building. I didn't know if it was the impending visit or the small space, but he was clutching that poor bear, Kuma-something, like it was a lifeline.

"Hey, you alright? We can do this later if you don't feel up to it right now." I asked gently, ignoring the instinct to put a hand on his shoulder. Although Matthew was slowly beginning to talk more and more, he still flinched away from any physical contact.

He shook his head, his eyes determined. His eyes interested me, partially because of their rare violet color and partially because of how expressive and honest they were. Unless he was purposefully hiding something or in the middle of a panic attack—then, they became a wall of ice cold stone—his eyes showed every emotion that passed through his thoughts. Admittedly, it made my job as his therapist—I cringed internally at the word—easier. I had had some patients in the past who had been so closed off that it had been nearly impossible to pry them open and even so much as try to help them. Those ones also turned out to be the biggest sweethearts on the planet, but still. Matthew, thankfully, didn't make a point to hide what he was feeling. I figured it was because he _wanted_ help, _wanted_ to be what he construed as "normal" again. Of course, normal was overrated, in my mind.

My thoughts cut off as we pushed through the doors and I was instantly mobbed by ten-year-olds. Most were there because they had witnessed or been through something horrible—abuse or bullying or had seen someone murdered, something along those lines—but there were a few that were there for things like suicide attempts. It made me sad to see them there, but it couldn't be helped. The world was cruel, and until the government got up its ass and did something to help fix the way that the younger generations were practically ignored, there were only a select few adults that could legitimately help. Luckily for me, I was one of them.

As I scanned the faces, only one was familiar. I recognized the bouncing blonde boy as Peter Kirkland, Arthur's nephew and a returning inpatient. He was probably in for attempting… again. That had to be his fourth time in the ward, if I had kept track properly. It had just been a downward spiral since his parents had died, to be honest.

I sighed sadly and bent down in front of him. The other kids quickly lost interest in me and went to go stare at Matthew with their big doe eyes as if he would have something special for them that I didn't.

Peter looked down and scuffed his feet at the floor, as if I was going to scold him. Instead, I just hugged him and smiled. "Hey, I thought I wouldn't see you here again? You promised, Peter."

He sighed softly and nodded, his thin arms wrapped around my neck. "I know, Gil. I just… it's hard."

His voice sounded small and weak, but I knew that he really was trying. It had been almost a year since his last release, so he had definitely been improving. The first time he had been released, it had been maybe two weeks before he was back.

"I know. You're doing good, though." I looked up and watched another small boy, clearly not a patient by the visitor's badge pinned to his shirt, watching us shyly. I recognized him as well. Raivis, Peter's best friend who, as far as I could remember, had visited every day without fail during his friend's stays there.

"Now, you go have as much fun as they'll let you in this hellhole, yeah?" I smirked and he giggled, running off to play with Raivis.

I stood up and looked over at Matthew. He was talking to—well, being talked at by—Tino, the small, energetic Finnish nurse who mostly worked in the minor's ward. Behind him was someone I had never seen before, a tall blonde man who was stoic and a little scary. He sort of reminded me of my younger brother, Ludwig.

Matthew seemed happier than I had seen him… ever, really, with three of the kids clinging to him and begging for his attention. Even Cindy, a little girl with a side ponytail and an attitude from hell, had taken a liking to him. I couldn't help but grin. He seemed like a little mother bird, his trail of hatchlings following him loyally as he wandered around with a smile on his face.

He turned toward me and his smile widened a bit. Before he could say anything, Cindy tugged him down by his sleeve, that angry pout that usually meant an oncoming shit storm on her face. He just smiled and nodded, letting her lead him away impatiently by the hand.

I spent about an hour leaning against the wall, watching Matthew flit around the room and keep the fifteen or so kids in the ward happy. It was quite a feat, since the age range was somewhere from eight to fifteen at the moment, and not one of them ever seemed inclined to throw a fit or even seemed remotely upset. He seemed really good with them, and I was impressed. Matthew seemed truly happy, despite whatever he had been through and his situation. Again, he reminded me of a parent bird, kind and gentle and bright. He looked like he really liked kids, especially the younger ones, and I found myself thinking that he would make a good teachers; one of those ones that everyone wanted and found themselves lucky to have. If I had had someone like the Canadian teaching me when I was in school, I probably would've been a hell of a lot less disruptive.

Well, maybe. Probably not, but I could dream.

Eventually, he made his way over to me, smiling shyly. "S-sorry… they're very energetic. I didn't m-mean to abandon you."

I laughed and shook my head, waving a hand dismissively. "Nah, don't worry about it. I'm impressed. I haven't seen them this calm in ages. Especially Cindy, she's usually a demon."

He looked shocked at that. "She's s-sweet, really,"

"Yeah, unless you don't give her what she wants. Either way, you're really good with kids, Birdie."

My mental nickname for him slipped out before I spared a second thought, and we both blushed. He buried his face in Kuma's fur and I quickly backtracked.

"Ah—sorry—I didn't mean to say that out loud! I mean, you just sort of seemed like a mama bird with them—" I seriously wanted to just run and hide right then, as embarrassed as I was. I couldn't believe that my brain-to-mouth filter had decided to quit working when it had.

"I… I l-like it… please don't apologize." I almost missed what Matthew said in my attempt to frantically take back my words, but his stopped me in my tracks.

"Wait… really? You don't mind?" I was surprised; most people didn't like the nicknames I gave them. Francis and Antonio, especially, didn't seem to appreciate them. For some reason, they hadn't liked me calling them Francey-Pants and Turtle Man.

He shook his head and his ears started turning red. I grinned, finding the action unbearably cute.

"Let's get you back to your room then, Birdie,"

He nodded, still hiding his face, and reached out to grab my sleeve, though he was still careful to avoid any contact with me. Still, it was the closest he had ever come to touching me, so I sure as hell wasn't going to complain. We said our goodbyes to the kids, Tino, and the other man who turned out to be named Berewald, and headed back down to the first floor.

I couldn't help but feel that it was simply the calm before the storm when Matthew disappeared into his room with a shy smile.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Matthew's POV

The days after the visit to the minor's ward were progressively better. I still couldn't stand prolonged human contact, but I could brush up against someone accidentally without freaking out. Finally, I was getting better. It was slow, but I was. Honestly, it was about damned time.

On the other hand, Gilbert had said what I had known and denied from the beginning. He needed to know what had happened before he could do anything else. He had gotten me learning to trust again, but that wouldn't do any good if I couldn't get past the demons that kept me chained down in my mind. He had gotten me to speak, but God knew how painful it would be to recount what had happened in that dark, dark room.

Thankfully, he tried to ease me into it, talking to me about my family, my childhood, increasingly sensitive topics. The worst had been the conversation about my triggers. It had been the worst while I was anxious to tell him about my issue with the color red, but he had simply given me a strange look, taken another note, and moved on. I wondered if he heard lots of things like that and had just stopped being surprised. After all, one had to get used to having albinism after living your entire life with it.

I was doing my best, which was impressive after living so passively for so long. When I had been in that shadowy room, I had submitted to the sadistic pleasures of my demon. Not that I had much choice, being chained to a wall and all, but it still managed to degrade my personality, my will to exist, day by day. I had been basically a shell by the time I had been found, slowly coaxed back to a vague semblance of life by that bright white light and interaction with other human beings who weren't mad with cruelty and bloodlust.

I wandered through the pale blue hallway, my bare feet sticking slightly to the warm white tile floor, making a soft, almost inaudible noise. I had gotten lost again in the great maze of the hospital. It seemed to be laid out somewhat like a labyrinth, probably to make it so that if a patient lost what little was left of their mental stability the staff could corner them while they wandered around aimlessly like I myself was. I knew that eventually I would find the cafeteria or Gilbert's office and be able to get back to my room from there, but it was still nerve wracking. I didn't like not knowing exactly where I was, and places like that, where every wall and every room looked the same, didn't help that feeling of anxiety. It was almost as bad as being in the dark for an extended period of time.

I wandered through the pale blue halls, lost for the umpteenth time in the labyrinthine hallways. From what I could tell, the building was designed so that any patient who completely lost it and got loose would be at least somewhat contained until they could be cornered. Safety precautions be damned, it was easy for me to get lost like I did oh so frequently. Luckily, most of the nurses and doctors knew of me by then—probably because of Gilbert—and they would always smile and send me in the right direction without batting an eye.

I opened another plain, unpainted wooden door and found myself in the lobby that I had waited in when I was first admitted. I blinked in surprise; it had been a while since I had gotten that lost. Usually I found someone before I got that far away from my room. I briefly wondered when I had started referring to it as my room; it was only temporary, and besides, I had a roommate. He had shown up about a week ago, a blonde Swiss man with green eyes named Vash. He was a bit intimidating, but it was hard to be scared of someone who you heard crying themselves to sleep every night. I actually kind of pitied him; I hoped he was getting what he needed like I was. I scanned the room, glad that it was mostly empty. The same receptionist who had been there when I was first admitted—I had learned by then that her name was Katyusha—was talking to a tall, bulky man at the desk.

For a second, I froze, then I forced myself to relax. It wasn't him. It couldn't be him. After all, my demon couldn't find me. He was nowhere near me. He had been taken to…

To a psychiatric hospital. Almost three months ago. I realized that his trial was set for about a week from them, a shiver running down my spine. That meant that he'd be getting out right about then. Which meant… it was him.

The world seemed to narrow to me and the man. The demon. I recognized him with terrifying clarity once I had lifted the veil of denial from my thoughts. The broad shoulders, the dark skin, the tangled black dreadlocks, the almost overly long limbs that I knew were so much stronger than my own. Katyusha said something to him and he laughed, the sound sending sharp shards of ice through my body in place of blood.

 _No. No. No, no, no. Not him. Not now. Please. Not now._

I must have made some sort of noise, or maybe he just realized I was there, because he turned, those beady eyes landing on me. A dark grin curled his lips and I broke.

Something inside me snapped and I bolted. I ran blindly, tears and panic obscuring my vision. I could hear him catching up, hear his laughter. His fingers brushed my skin and I ran faster, hoping that I was hallucinating when I heard him chasing me. Soon, though, coherent thought was merely a memory. I could hear the clink of knives, my wrists and ankles were heavy with chains. I stumbled and fell, noting somewhere in the back of my mind that I had dropped the polar bear. I didn't have it in me to care.

My breathing came in sharp, ragged gasps, burning in my throat. I stumbled into a random room and collapsed into one of the beds, only able to hope that it was mine. I squeezed my eyes shut, barely registering the tears that ran down my cheeks. But blocking out reality only made the memories flashing behind my eyelids more vivid. Knives and grins and so many shadows and I was drowning, drowning in blood, and there was so much red and it was everywhere and I couldn't breathe—

I screamed, the phantom pain of blades and flames and chains tearing across my skin. That cold, horrible laughter that had haunted my reality for so long echoed in my head and I clasped my hands tightly over my ears, trying to claw the noise, the memories, the images, from my mind. I could feel blood, but whether or not it was real was up for debate. Of course, I wasn't exactly able to debate anything at that moment. I was a bit busy fighting off the demons that lived in every damned shadow in my pitch black mind.

Dully, I heard a shout and a door slam, but I was too busy with my own demons to do anything but scream. My throat was raw and sore and my head was throbbing but I couldn't stop screaming. If I did, no one would hear me.

Darkness was the only thing I could see, occasionally punctuated by a flash of cold metal or a spray of red that came from beneath my skin. The pain was sharp and constant, fingers and blades and chains digging into my flesh and adding to the growing pool of red that I was beginning to drown in again. Reality wasn't a thing anymore, only my hell and my demon and my blood and my shadows. Red and black and silver and pain colored my life, and I was again trapped in an endless hell. This time, there was no Alfred to save me. No Elizaveta to make sure I didn't slip permanently into my memories of hell. No Gilbert to make me see that loud and boisterous—and attractive, if I was honest with myself—didn't necessarily mean dangerous.

Slowly, slowly, my voice died again, and I was reduced to sobs, not knowing if the warm liquid I felt running down my cheeks was blood or tears or both. There was a vague voice, but it was static-y and faded in and out irregularly, so I couldn't hear anything. I found myself clutching something soft and squeezed it close, trying to anchor myself to the tatters that were left of my sanity just a bit more steadily.

The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me again was one last flash of bright red.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Gilbert's POV

It was strange to see Roderich lovesick. He never lost a hold of that cool, calm façade he kept so close, and yet, the Swiss man who was his new patient had ended up smashing through it like it was glass. To be honest, it was a bit funny. Not even I had made Roderich lose his shit like that.

The Austrian looked like hell. His hair was mussed up, his glasses crooked, and it he hadn't slept in weeks if the purple bruising under his eyes was any indication. Even the mole beneath his lip was looking paler than usual. That patient—Vash, he had said—was taking his toll on Roddy.

"I just don't _understand_ him, Gil. What am I supposed to do? He's a stubborn bastard and I can't get it through his thick skull that I'm actually trying to help him. I get that he's probably been through hell and back, and I get that he's been to so many therapists he's lost count, but for God's sake. He's never going to get out of here if he doesn't learn to trust me!" Roderich complained, burying his face in his hands with a groan. I sat next to him on the couch in his office, one hand on his back in what I hoped was a comforting gesture.

"I know you don't want to hear this, but I don't really think there's anything you can do. If he's going to be a stubborn ass, you can't help that. Just do your best."

He glared at me and I offered an apologetic grin. I wasn't good with cheering people up, and he knew it, but it probably didn't make my words anymore helpful.

Before he could offer a snarky response, the door flew open and slammed against the wall. A pale-faced man with blonde hair and green eyes was standing there, out of breath and looking horrified.

Roderich was on his feet in an instant. "Vash? What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"M-Matthew—I don't know—screaming—what—" The poor man's terrified stuttering was barely enough for me to realize what was going on. Then again, with _Matthew_ and _screaming_ in there, it wasn't hard.

I pushed past Vash and ran out into the hall, panic flooding my mind. It only got worse when I found Kuma, looking distinctly abandoned, lying on the floor of one of the hallways. Oh, that was bad. Matthew _never_ dropped Kuma, much less dropped him and left him lying there until he decided to come back. Something bad had happened, I could feel it in the pit of my stomach.

I bolted towards Matthew's room, navigating the twisting corridors with ease. I sped up when I heard screaming, coming distinctly from the direction of Matthew's room. He usually never screamed, or if he did, he had the presence of mind to muffle it so he didn't disturb anyone. That wasn't exactly a good thing, since it meant that I almost never knew when he was having a schizophrenic attack until after it had happened, but in that case, it was a very, very bad thing that I could hear him screaming, because it meant that he was so lost in his mind that he couldn't even scream into a pillow.

I was right. Matthew was curled up on his bed, but that didn't do anything to quiet the shrieks of pure terror that were being ripped from his lungs. Tears streaked his cheeks, his hair was tangled, and his hands were clawing at his ears so hard he was drawing blood. His eyes were wild and there was so much fear in his eyes that I was getting scared. He looked… broken.

My chest tightened in sympathy and I moved toward him, though he flinched away with a shrill scream. His expression was wild with terror, and I knew that it wasn't me he was seeing. Slowly, so as not to scare him any worse, I held out the stuffed bear that had such a strange, profound calming effect on the man. He shrank away, whimpering pitifully. I gently pressed it into his arms, taking care not to brush against him—I knew it would just send him deeper into his mind. He clutched it tightly and rocked back and forth, trembling with the aftershock of the schizophrenic attack.

A couple minutes later, his sobs were reduced to hiccups and silent tears, his panic faded to exhaustion. I spoke softly to him, trying to calm him down and draw him from his hallucinations, but I didn't actually know if it was helping at all. His eyes slipped close, his breathing evened, and I knew he was asleep.

I sighed softly and leaned down to ease my arms beneath him, taking care to jostle him as little as possible. Something had obviously freaked him out, and I didn't want him waking up and being scared shitless of me. That, and he had carved lovely semicircles into the areas behind his ears, and I didn't want to make those hurt any more than they already did.

Making a mental note to cut his nails sometime soon, I carried him to my office and set him down in the pile of beanbags that lived on the floor. He slept quietly, showing no signs of even thoughts of waking. I gently removed his glasses, setting them on my desk before collapsing into my chair and burying my face in my hands with a groan. It had been a fight from the start to keep him off medication, but I had the feeling that Matthew was one of those people that meds just wouldn't work for. He needed to get past psychological blockages before stabilizing the physical issues in his brain. But now that he had had such a major attack, and had done so much damage to himself… I was starting to wonder if I was right. Maybe medicating him would help, or at least make the hallucinations a little bit more bearable.

I attempted to do paperwork for about an hour before Matthew stirred, whimpering softly. I grabbed his glasses and went to kneel beside him, holding them out carefully. I didn't dare be too loud or make any sudden movements; I didn't know how shaken up he was at the time. He blinked blearily, shakily putting his glasses on. He looked broken, shattered, his eyes depressingly lifeless.

"Hey, welcome back. How are you?" My voice was soft, and for once I didn't have to force it. I was so concerned that I couldn't bring myself to talk at even a normal volume.

He shrugged, apparently finding the carpet incredibly interesting.

I set a gentle hand on his shoulder, tentative to touch him but deciding to test the waters. He'd gotten better with small touches like that, and I was hoping that whatever had happened that had sent him into such a bad schizophrenic episode hadn't taken that away again. He flinched for a moment, then relaxed. He still wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Matthew, it's alright. I don't think any less of you, I promise." I could see his lack of self-confidence in his eyes, his guilt. I had met more people than I could count that felt guilty after a panic attack or such, blaming themselves for what they perceived as troubling me or the nurse that brought them to me. It wasn't logical in the least, but they truly felt like that, and I could understand why.

He nodded softly and sighed a bit, his arms tightening around Kuma. He looked nervous, and kept opening and closing mouth ever so slightly as if he wanted to tell me something. For some reason, he seemed to have regained his aversion to speaking. Maybe he had seen something or someone that triggered a bad memory, one that was linked to his lack of speech.

I gently nudged his chin, making him finally look up at me. I smiled reassuringly and he offered a weak, watery one in return. I was glad that even after that, he was able to smile so sweetly.

He sniffled and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hands, wiping away the tears that had started to form; I wondered if they were there because of my kindness or because he was remembering what had occurred a few hours before. Gently, so as not to scare him, I helped, smearing away the drops that managed to escape from beneath his eyelashes. He flinched again, fear flashing briefly in his eyes before he took a shaky breath and relaxed.

I smiled lightly and pulled my hand away; he really was making progress, even with this brief setback. I was honestly impressed with his determination. It wasn't often that someone walked through my door who wanted to get better right off the bat. Those who checked themselves in were brave, the once who cooperated with their therapists just as impressive. I hated to break the somewhat happy atmosphere, but there was no more beating around the bush.

"Matthew… what happened?"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Matthew's POV

I had dreaded those words, but I knew they were inevitable. That question, the one that tipped the scale dangerously toward permanent scars, deep shadows, and that hated red that threatened to drown me oh so often.

"Matthew… what happened?"

I sighed softly and clutched the stuffed animal in my arms all the tighter, trying to stall. I didn't want to tell him. I didn't want Gilbert to know. He'd hate me, I knew it. I was weak, cowardly, disgusting…I could go on for days. He'd pass me on to another therapist with disgust, and I'd spend the rest of my life like that.

My breathing shallowed out a bit and Gilbert's hand returned gently to my shoulder, his skin warm even through my shirt. His touch loosened something in my lungs, making it a bit easier to breathe.

"Hey, now. Breathe, Birdie. You're safe with me. I promise."

His words brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. _Safe…_ When was the last time I had been able to say that I was truly safe? I had heard that I was safe lot in that too-white hospital room, but I had known it was never true. Alfred had told me that I was safe when he clutched almost desperately at my hand in the ambulance after saving me, but I hadn't believed it then, either. In the beginning, I had thought that my demon would keep me safe, but he sure as hell hadn't. The last time I could remember that warm, happy feeling of being completely and truly safe and secure was when I was first brought into my adopted family's home.

I had been eight.

I nodded and he squeezed my shoulder reassuringly before letting it go. I could still feel the phantom warmth of his hand, even after it had left.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

His voice was gentle, oh so gentle, and I couldn't bear to say no. I nodded again, my breath rattling in my lungs as my nerves jittered almost painfully. He smiled lightly and his eyes lit up, making it all suddenly feel like it would be worth it in the end.

"I-I… He… I saw him. My demon." The words were barely a whisper, and they seemed to burn as I spoke them.

Gilbert just looked confused. "What? Matthew, who?"

I took a shuddering breath, stalling for time. I didn't want to tell him. God, I didn't want to. If I started telling him, I'd start reliving it, and I knew that my retelling would not be without pain. But I knew it was necessary, and for some reason, I knew that he wouldn't abandon me. I was terrified of the possibility, but if he hadn't given up on me by then, he wouldn't give up on me when I finally got up the courage to force the words out of my mouth.

"He… His name is Carlos M-Machado," even saying his name made a sick feeling coil in the pit of my stomach. Gilbert's hands encased mine, and I realized in shock that I had unconsciously begun to dig my nails into my wrists.

"Take it easy, Birdie. Who is this man to you?" His voice was soft as the brush of a feather, the pads of his thumbs leaving burning trails across my skin as he stroked them over my knuckles.

"H-he was my b-boyfriend," the words felt like poison on my tongue. "But he's not a-anymore. He's a demon."

The last sentence came out as barely a whisper, and my grip tightened on Gilbert's hands. He squeezed my hands reassuringly, his thumbs never pausing in their tracing of the ridges of my too-prominent knuckles. I had gained a little weight in the weeks I had spent there, but I was still far from healthy. Being practically starved to death for two and a half years was hard to recover from.

The question was there, I could see it in Gilbert's eyes. He was curious, but he didn't want to push me. _What did he do to you?_

My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, but I forced myself to continue. He deserved that, at least. "W-when I was eighteen, he… he was the first one to notice me. Usually, people don't see me, even if I run straight into them. I tend to get trampled in crowds, to be honest. But… h-he saw me. I… I guess that's what drew me to him in the first place." I lowered my voice to the point that it was almost a whisper. It was hard to recount the days when Carlos had been a good guy, when I had been too innocent—too naïve—to think that our relationship would ever be anything but perfect. "We st-started dating, eventually. At first, he was really sweet, but then… It started out slow. A couple slaps every now and then. A glare or a harsh word. H-he told me a l-lot that he didn't like it when I talked. A-anyway, I could deal with it, and it wasn't that bad, so I didn't think it would be a p-problem." My voice cracked and I closed my eyes, leaning forward until my forehead met Gilbert's chest. I could hear his heart beating, the strong, steady noise giving me a bit more courage. I could feel tears burning the back of my eyes, but I resisted them. I felt like I cried too much to be healthy. Then again, when was anything ever healthy for me then?

"A few months after he st-started… abusing me, one of my friends came over, since he hadn't seen me since I started dating C-Carlos. He got jealous easily, and I didn't want to make him angry. But, I figured that I could make Riley leave b-before he got home." My breath hitched and my body trembled, the force of my silent tears being ripped out of me wracking my frame.

"C-Carlos got home early, th-that day. He… He got so mad, when he saw Riley. He k-kicked him out an-and then…"

Gilbert rested his chin lightly atop my head, scooting hesitantly closer. If it had been anyone else, I knew I would have pushed them away, and the physical contact probably would've sent me into one schizophrenic attack after another until I passed out from sheer terror. But instead, his touch calmed me, anchored me to the present and warded me from memories of the past.

"He dragged me to the b-basement… I had never been al-llowed there, and I know why n-now. It was pitch black, with a little tiny light hanging from the ceiling. He didn't turn it on o-often. Th-there were… there were chains, sunk i-into the walls, and he locked them around my w-wrists and my ankles… I couldn't move. I… it hurt. God, it hurt so much."

I whimpered slightly, the silver gleam of a scalpel—his favorite "toy"—flashing behind my closed eyelids. He gently puled one of his hands from mine, using it to instead tilt my chin up. I opened my eyes, his gaze instantly catching mine. His eyes, though they were the same shade of the red I had grown to both hate and fear, they held so much kindness and reassurance that I couldn't help but let my tears fall. With my grief, I released my fear and my pain and my despair, crying to wipe the slate that was my mind clean.

After a few minutes of sobbing into Gilbert's shoulder—during which I somehow moved close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body—I calmed down, my emotions surprisingly tranquil.

"I spent two and a half years in that basement… he liked to hurt me. H-he'd cut me, or whip me, or… or rape me, but every time I screamed, he'd laugh. I…" My voice broke again, returning to barely above a whisper. "It was always so dark, but when he turned that light on… it was all metal or blood or his smile… when he smiled, I always knew that it would be worse that time."

I had to pause for a minute or two, wading my way through the memories of that hell and focusing on Gilbert's touch. His arms were around me, giving me a strong, sturdy bubble of warmth to thoroughly cocoon myself in.

"I… I l-lost track of time, eventually. The only reason I-I didn't lose my sanity was because Alfred came l-looking for me. He called the police, and th-they took him away. I spent a couple months in a regular hospital, then Alfred admitted me here…"

I trailed off, not sure how to end a story like that. He knew the rest, but saying that out loud seemed too cheesy, almost cliché. Luckily, Gilbert seemed to sense that I was done, because he hummed softly, as if thinking.

"Carlos… that name sounds familiar. Big, bulky Cuban guy with dreadlocks?"

Shocked, I nodded. I had no idea how, but he knew Carlos. He knew my demon.

"Huh. He was Roddy's last patient. I agree with you; he's scary as hell. He can't hurt you anymore, though, okay? He was released this morning, for good. He's on his way to death row now."

I nodded, not sure what to think about the fact that he'd been punished with death. He deserved it after what he had done to me, to be honest, but it seemed a little inhumane.

Still, snuggled up against Gil, with his arms wrapped tightly around me and that burden lifted from my conscious, it seemed like everything would finally start looking up.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: Gilbert's POV

Two weeks later, things had gotten much better for Matthew. It almost seemed like keeping what Carlos had done to him such a closely-guarded secret had taken almost as much of a toll on him as the actual trauma had. Once it was gone, he made progress five times as fast, and I had to say I was impressed. I had cut his nails, causing a significant decrease in the severity of his injuries after and during attacks, thank God. Another good thing was that he was having fewer and fewer schizophrenic attacks as he became desensitized to some of his triggers. He had gotten over his fear of the mere sight of the color red—thanks to my eyes, he said—and things like sudden noises and flashes of metal had stopped bugging him quite as much. He would still freak out if he thought too much about what had happened, or if his still dangerously low self-confidence got to him, but he usually stayed lucid enough to get to me before it really got bad. All in all, he was getting better, and I was proud of my little Birdie.

That was another thing. I had started referring to him as "my" or "mine" in my head, and just generally being a bit more protective—possessive, even—than usual. It was a bit terrifying, to be honest, and I wasn't sure what it was, but I knew that it sure as hell wasn't anything close

I decided to focus on helping Matthew recover, not sorting out whatever emotions I might have had. I decided to start small, since he was still pretty anxious around people, especially strangers, so I set up a family therapy session. I wasn't exactly looking forward to it, since Alfred was not someone I enjoyed spending elongated periods of time with, but it couldn't be too bad. After all, Matthew's quiet thoughtfulness and Alfred's annoying loudness had to balance each other out, right?

I wasn't exactly wrong. They didn't exactly cancel each other out, just made their polar opposite personalities more obvious. Matthew seemed a hell of a lot quieter—and gentler, to be honest—next to his brother. Personally, Alfred could probably be admitted as a patient, no matter how good a therapist he supposedly was. I wouldn't know; I didn't treat DID for a reason. It was a bit disturbing to think that some people had been so traumatized that their personalities had literally split into two or more seperate pieces. I didn't even want to think of the stories Alfred must have had to hear on a daily basis.

Still, even though he was annoying and a bit scary, to be honest, he was Matthew's brother, and the person who had saved him from that hellhole. I owed him the chance to help with his brother's progress, at the very least. Besides, family therapy was always a good starting point when it came to treatment. The patient was comfortable with the other people there, and everyone was usually supportive, so it could only help.

I set the appointment for a Thursday, since Thursdays were usually meant to be a relaxed day for therapists in preparation for the shitstorms that Fridays tended to be. Alfred agreed and so did Matthew, although he seemed a bit nervous. I didn't blame him; he hadn't seen his brother in what was probably months, so he had good reason to be a bit wary.

Matthew and I were both sitting on beanbags, the Canadian giggling cutely as some dumb joke I had made, when Alfred knocked.

"Come in!"

I heard a laugh and the door flung open; I winced when it hit the wall with a loud bang. I hoped it hadn't dented anything.

"The hero has arrived! How are you little bro?" Alfred bounced over to us excitedly and I resisted the urge to groan as he jumped onto a beanbag and almost split it at the seams with the force of his landing.

"Ah… I'm fine, Alfred. I'm… great, actually." Matthew smiled shyly at me and I felt my heart lurch oddly.

Alfred grinned. "That's great! Who gave you the bear, dude?"

"G-Gilbert gave it to me…"

Alfred winked suggestively at me and Matthew went bright red, hiding his face in the stuffed bear. I could feel my own cheeks warming up at exactly what Alfred was implying.

I cleared my throat awkwardly, swallowing through a suddenly dry throat. God _damn_ it, Alfred. "Well, as much as I enjoy this… conversation, we do have some serious things to discuss."

Matthew glanced up gratefully and Alfred huffed in annoyance, thankfully dropping the topic for the moment. It was embarrassing me and Matthew both, and I didn't want to think about the implications if what he said was true.

"So, what exactly are we talking about? I don't usually do family therapy with my clients, and I have an appointment with a patient in about an hour and a half, so I hope it's quick." Alfred leaned back on the beanbags, yawning. I realized he had some pretty dark bags under his eyes… I could only wonder how many patients he had at the time.

"Well, since I know… what Matthew went through, I'd like to start with that. Alfred, you were the one who found him, right?"

The American's face went dark and he nodded. "Yeah. I hadn't heard from Mattie in, like, two months, so I went to check on him and caught his bastard of a boyfriend in the act; called the police. After that, well…"

Matthew hadn't spoken of his time in the regular hospital and I glanced over at him thoughtfully. Nothing else could have happened to him there… right?

Matthew shook his head, like he could read my mind. "It's… not what you're probably thinking, Gil. I just can't remember much of it."

At my inquisitive glance, he sighed and looked at the ground. Alfred set a hand on his brother's back and shot me a look that warned me not to push Mattie too hard. However, after a few shaky breaths and a brief moment, Matthew looked back up, his violet eyes locking with mine. Despite how nervous he seemed, his expression was one of pure determination.

"I… For the first few months, it was pretty much just one a-attack after another. I just… I don't know. I guess I was just terrified, and the pain was just so new that I hadn't been able to block it off quite yet. Anyway, people didn't really remember that I existed, so I was pushed to the side a lot and they'd only realize I was having another attack when I was screaming and thrashing so much I was actually breaking the equipment. Apparently I'm stronger than I think."

I couldn't help but chuckle at that. Matthew had told me that he like to play hockey, and that he wanted to do it professionally one day. He had said "if I ever get out," but I knew it was only a matter of time. He was doing so well that I knew instinctively that it wouldn't be much longer until he was out, most likely for good.

That thought made me a little sad. I'd realized that, as horrible as the circumstances were, I considered Mattie a friend, and I'd miss him when he left. I knew that there was a high chance that I'd be able to see him again, but losing him was a scary thought to me.

"There was this one nurse, though, Elizaveta. She was really nice. When I was lucid enough to actually hold a conversation, we talked a lot. She helped a lot, to be honest. She… pulled me out of my mind, I guess. Sorry, that probably doesn't make sense."

Matthew curled in on himself, hugging his knees close with Kuma between them and his chest. He seemed a bit embarrassed to have said something like that, but I was ecstatic. He was starting to talk in longer and longer chunks. If he turned out to be a natural chatterbox, that would be fine with me, because if I saw that side of him, it meant I was doing my job right.

Then again, Matthew had become much more than a job a long time ago.

After family therapy ended, Alfred pulled me aside and grinned. Matthew clearly sensed the shit storm approaching and made his way out of my office, probably to go back to his room or to go find Lovino, Toni's sassy Italian patient who somehow got along with Mattie pretty well. It was an interesting relationship to watch, but hey, I wasn't going to complain as long as Matthew was making friends and calming Lovino the fuck down.

"So… You and Matt, huh?" I could only pray that the fire in my cheeks didn't show.

"What do you mean? Mattie's my _patient,_ for Christ's sake." It was more the fact that it was technically illegal for me to have any sort of romantic affiliation with a patient than the fact that it was Matthew. If Matthew was comfortable enough with that sort of relationship after he got out, then… Well, he was adorable, available, and I'd sure as hell ask him out.

Alfred groaned and rolled his eyes theatrically. "Oh, come _on._ I _know_ you have a thing for him. And I _know_ he has a thing for you. Just have sex already, man!"

If I wasn't blushing before, I definitely was then. The mere _thought_ of seeing—

 _No. N-O. Not okay, Gilbert! Bad imagination!_ My face was on fire and I could barely meet Alfred's eyes. He laughed, like he knew what I was thinking, but sobered quickly.

"Seriously, though. I don't mind you dating him; you're a great guy and you managed to bring him out of his shell. I don't think I've seen him that talkative in my life. But. You hurt him, and you'll have hell to pay. Don't think I won't hurt you."

Alfred's eyes were cold and hard, unforgiving. I gulped; he could be pretty scary when he wanted. Still… hurt Mattie? He'd have to get to me before I did if he wanted a shot at hurting me.

"I won't. I couldn't hurt Matthew. Not now, not ever."

He grinned, his usual boisterous attitude back. Alfred clapped me on the shoulder, winked knowingly, and walked off.

I was pretty sure I needed either a nap or a cold shower, what with my imagination. Maybe both.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Matthew's POV

Honestly? I was terrified. Gilbert had brought up the most horrifying term I could think of: group therapy. The concept scared the shit out of me. God-only-knew how many people, all talking one by one about what they had been through, and everyone sat there and stared at them… The thought of it made my skin crawl. I didn't like being in the spotlight, which is why being basically invisible had never really bothered me. The idea of a bunch of people staring at me like they were trying to dissect my soul was not something I ever enjoyed entertaining.

It made me feel a tiny bit better to know that Gilbert and Alfred and Lovino would all be there, since the therapists were supposed to oversee the group therapy sessions in case any of the patients flipped out. Lovino wasn't much comfort, but at least I knew him well enough to know that he was more of a danger to himself than he was to me. Not that that was necessarily a good thing in the grand scheme of things, but it wasn't a bad thing as far as I was concerned.

I entered the room nervously, hiding behind Gil as best I could. Luckily, it worked pretty well, since I was shorter and slimmer and less noticeable than him. On the other hand, an albino walking into the room drew attention to him and, in turn, me.

Lovino waved me over, though he was looking distinctly pale. I made my way over, feeling horribly exposed when Gilbert went to talk to Lovi's therapist and a blonde man who looked almost as nervous as me. I sympathized with him, though I had no idea who he was.

"You okay, Lovino?" My voice sounded too loud, despite the high volume of the chatter around me.

He mutely shook his head and wrapped his arms around his torso. "No… No. I'm not."

I gently set a hand on his back and he leaned into it ever so slightly, his amber eyes closing and his frame beginning to tremble slightly. I could tell he was barely avoiding a relapse, and his face was strained as he tried not to cry.

His hands scrabbled at the leather bracelets around his wrists. I clasped my hands around his fingers, holding them tightly. I knew that he wanted to scratch at old wounds, to reopen them and see the blood and feel the pain. However, it was detrimental to his own recovery and the sight of blood would probably send me into a relapse as well. Neither was a good option.

"Hey, stop that. What's wrong, Lovino? Talk to me." I squeezed his hands and he squeezed back, taking steady, slow breaths in an attempt to calm himself down.

"I— I said something really horrible to Antonio last night, Matthew. I just… he hates me now, I know he does, and I'm… afraid to apologize." Lovino kept his voice low and glanced furtively around the room. I knew that he was afraid of exposing his perceived weakness to others.

"Lovino, Antonio doesn't have a bone in his body capable of hating anyone, _especially_ you." My reassurances fell on deaf ears. Sometimes it scared me to think that someone could hate themselves so much that they thought there was no way anyone else could think anything positive of them.

That was usually when I realized that I had been like that, once.

Lovino shook his head and his hands tightened further around mine. "No, I know he hates me. I don't think you get it. The things I said were so fucking horrible… I didn't mean them, I really didn't. It was just one of those days and I…" He shuddered and clenched his eyes shut.

"Lovi, it's okay. Antonio understands. He'd be really bad at his job if he didn't." That, at least, god Lovino to crack a smile. "Besides, you're you. You could put him through hell and back and he wouldn't mind. Just do something nice for him and that's all he'll need. You don't even have to explicitly apologize for anything."

Lovino looked up at me and smiled hesitantly. "Thanks, Matthew. You know, whenever you get out of this dump, maybe you could work here as a nurse or something. Someone like you could do a world of good."

I paused, thinking about it. The idea of becoming a psychiatrist had never even occurred to me. Then again, it's hard to think about career choices when you're trapped in your ex-boyfriend's basement. But… I had always wanted to be a teacher. There was that children's ward, though…

My train of thought was derailed when Lovino went pale again and quickly turned his face away from the door. I turned toward it, curious, and saw a man in his sixties or seventies rolling into the room via wheelchair.

"Lovino? You okay?" Antonio approached us from behind and set a hand on the Italian's shoulder. He jumped but shook his head, swallowing heavily.

"No. I—I can't—I'm not—" Antonio took the hint and gently steered Lovino out of the room, past the wheelchair guy. Gilbert took Lovino's abandoned seat and sighed softly.

"That's Feli and Lovi's grandfather. He runs this place." Gil nodded toward the man, smiling a little.

"Alright, crazies! Give the chairs up to the sane people."

There was a pause, until people realized he was referring to the patients as the sane ones and people started laughing. He grinned, the expression making Matthew tense. That expression was scarily reminiscent of Carlos'. I didn't know why, but it did. Maybe it was the build. Either way, it wasn't a good feeling.

Gil must've sensed my tension because he reached over and took one of my hands, twining out fingers and giving it a reassuring squeeze. I blushed; I was suddenly tense for whole different reason.

I wasn't an idiot. I knew what the way that my heart stuttered when he looked at me meant. I knew what the heat that spread over my skin any time he touched me meant. I knew. I knew and I was terrified. I was scared of falling for someone again and having them hurt me. I was weary of betrayal, tired of pain, and scared of love.

The fact that I knew I was falling for Gilbert and I couldn't do anything about it terrified me.

I was distracted again when the man in the wheelchair started talking again. "For those of you who don't know, my name is Augustus Vargas and I'm the CEO of this pathetic place. Sorry to all of you who're stuck here!"

Another ripple of laughter spread through the ring of people, but I only shifted nervously. I was starting to think that maybe agreeing to that hadn't been the best idea.

Augustus looked around and grinned again, his eyes landing on me. That expression, combined with that look, terrified me. I could feel myself starting to slip back into that familiar blanket of red panic. Dully, I was disappointed. I had been doing so well and all that progress was gone in an instant.

Terror engulfed me, my body starting to shake violently. I hadn't brought Kuma, for fear of looking like more of a freak than I already knew I was, so there was nothing to cling to, nothing to use to anchor myself.

Then, suddenly, there was. Something much sturdier and much more fragile than the stuffed polar bear. Something warm and comforting and soft around the edge. Instinctually, I knew exactly what it was. _Who_ it was. Gilbert.

He wrapped his arms around me and held me close, whispering gentle, soothing things into my ear. I clung to him like he was a buoy saving me from drowning. I was dimly aware of the fact that that he had half-picked me up, one arm slung beneath my knees, my torso parallel to his so that I could press my face into the crook of his shoulder. It was strangely reassuring to be able to depend so entirely on someone.

I calmed down fairly quickly once we were away from prying eyes. We had moved back to Gil's office, him seated on one of the beanbags and me on his lap. It was a fairly compromising position, but I was too busy realizing that I had actually been able to pull myself out of my mind and avoid a full-blown panic attack. And the only reason I had been able to do so was because of Gilbert. Gilbert, who had been so patient, so kind, that I couldn't help but warm up to him despite his similarities to Carlos. Gilbert, who had stayed with me through countless panic attacks and countless nightmares and so many tears it was impossible to even begin counting. Gilbert, with those eyes that reminded me so much of my time in the basement but were the representation of everything I had never expected to experience again.

Gilbert, who I was completely, totally, and irreversibly in love with.

Gilbert, who I could never allow myself to have.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Gilbert's POV

The idea of group therapy was immediately discarded after the first attempt. I didn't know what had sent Matthew into a near-panic attack, but I didn't want to risk it happening again, and couldn't prevent it because he had blatantly said that he didn't want to talk about it. That was fine with me, though; there was only so far the trust between a therapist and a patient could go.

Although, I had been starting to think as Mattie as more than just my patient; more than a friend. It was the same as when I had been in love with Roderich, but Matthew was cuter and sweeter and the emotions were increased tenfold. Every time the blonde looked at me with that shy smile and his eyes all wide and sweet, I melted. I knew that I would do literally anything for him. He wanted me to kill his boyfriend? I'd do it in a heartbeat. Well, I had wanted to kill Carlos violently since I learned what he had done to my Birdie, but that was a different matter; that wasn't my point. My point was that I had fallen for Matthew, hard, and I couldn't let him know no matter what I did.

I would've loved to tell him, yes, but I _couldn't._ I could be insensitive and oblivious a lot of the time, yes, but not to that extent. _No one_ could possibly have so little respect for someone as to ask them to start a romantic relationship right after they got out of a too-long, extremely abusive one. That just wasn't something I could do to Matthew. That sort of fear wasn't something he'd get over quickly, and I refused to be a cause of it.

If I could make him happy, though, that was all I'd need.

Going off that ideology, I got him cleared to use the kitchen. Mattie had mentioned that he liked to cook, and technically letting him do something he enjoyed was a therapy technique. In all honesty, it was an excuse to see him smiling and laughing and just generally being cute. He wouldn't be allowed there alone, of course, but since he was no longer a high-risk patient, it wasn't too hard. I knew that he'd probably be released soon, maybe given outpatient treatment, but that was a good thing.

I couldn't convince myself that that wasn't a complete lie. If it was good, I wouldn't have died a little inside every time I remembered that he'd be leaving.

Matthew edged around the door and smiled shyly, shutting it softly behind him. I grinned and leaned back, swiveling the spinning chair that I probably shouldn't have played around with as much as I did to face him.

"Hey, Birdie. How are you?" Unlike with most of my patients, I actually cared about the answer to the question.

"I'm good. You?"

That was another thing about Matthew. He was always concerned about other people, even when he was pretty bad off himself. It was the sort of selflessness that I had always admired; Antonio was like that, too.

"I'm doing great. So—" I was interrupted by a sharp chirp and the rustle of feathers.

Matthew jumped, blinking in surprise. My pet canary, Gilbird, had flown over to Matthew and was settled on his hair, pecking a little at the blonde strands around him to make a sort-of nest. Mattie looked shocked, then giggled softly. The sound went straight to my heart and made me smile in return.

"Sorry about that; he followed me out the door and I was running late, so I didn't have time to put him back in the house."

"No, no, it's fine. I think he likes me." Matthew giggled again as Gilbird chirped in what was probably agreement. He was smart enough to understand what I was saying. Probably.

"Alright, then. I have a surprise for you, Birdie." I grinned and he tilted his head curiously.

"Surprise? What do you mean?"

"It wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?" I stood and opened the door, motioning theatrically. "After you, ma'am."

He smacked me lightly on the head as he passed, but I didn't miss the way his cheeks turned slightly red. "Don't you ma'am me, you old fart."

"Hey, now, don't be cruel. I'm not that much older than you!"

He rolled his eyes but didn't respond, knowing that he was beat. Six months really wasn't that much time.

I led him to the kitchen, holding the door open. He stared for a moment before smiling happily. I didn't miss his tiny, adorable giggle.

"You're so sweet, Gil. I don't know how you did this… but thank you. I… It means a lot to know you trust me."

I knew what he was saying. Most therapists would never let their patients near the kitchen under any circumstances. The amount of trust that I had in him was a little scary and more than a little unprofessional but I really didn't give a fuck.

I shut the door behind us so that no stray patients could get in and Matthew seemed to relax. It was strange; he preferred to be with me in a closed room than be alone. One would thing that enclosed spaces would send him straight into a panic attack, but he had said that he felt secure as long as I was there. I would be lying if I said I hadn't gotten all warm and fuzzy inside when he told me that.

"So, is there anything special we're in here for, or…?" Matthew smiled shyly and Gilbird, who was still on his head, played with a few strands of his hair.

"I wanted to see if I'd get the honor of trying some of those supposedly legendary pancakes."

Matthew raised his eyebrows and put a hand on his hip, looking at me challengingly. "Supposedly? You, sir, have obviously never been to heaven because my pancakes are the best in the state."

I snorted and shook my head. "I was born and raised in hell, and you know it. I'm still doubting Alfred's obsessive praise."

Matthew laughed and shook his head slightly, starting to look through cupboards for the right ingredients. "You little cynic, you. You'll be eating your words when I'm through with you."

I sat down in one of the chairs at the small table and hummed approvingly. "We'll see about that. I'd prefer to be eating pancakes."

Mattie chuckled and set about cooking. I sat and watched, keeping out of his way—I was not a good cook by anyone's standards, except maybe someone who had just eaten something Arthur had tried to cook.

Matthew hummed as he cooked. I didn't know if it was a conscious thing or not, but it was a tune I didn't recognize. It was relaxing, though. He looked calm and almost peaceful, smiling softly and almost dancing around the kitchen. It was almost alien to see him so relaxed and serene when he wasn't asleep. I wasn't complaining, though; seeing him so comfortable was basically a dream come true for me.

It took maybe half an hour for Mattie to cook the pancakes, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. Apparently I looked pretty dopey because he smacked me on the head when he put the plate in front of me. The pancakes looked and smelled pretty damn good, as far as I was concerned.

"Stop smiling like that and eat. You didn't have any decent maple syrup so I had to make my own." He huffed, sitting down across from me and watching me expectantly.

I chuckled and picked up the fork, slowly cutting a bit out from the edge. Matthew was clearly excited, and I wanted to make that expression stay on his face for as long as physically possible, so I was purposely taking longer than was necessary.

 _Okay, Alfred wasn't kidding. Not even a little bit._ I thought, unable to help the little groan I made when I took the bite. Matthew giggled and smiled widely, a hint of mischief in his pretty eyes.

"I _told_ you. But did you believe me? _No._ " He teased, and I waved my hand dismissively, though my smirk was just as wide as his.

"Alright, alright. You win. These are by far the best pancakes I've ever tasted Happy now?"

He nodded, a shit-eating grin taking its place on his face. It was nice to hear him be so sassy instead of quiet and self-conscious like he usually was.

I finished the plate with a happy sigh and a content grin. Matthew smiled shyly at me through his bangs.

"I take it you enjoyed them?"

I nodded and stood, putting the plate in the sink. "No shit. They were only gone in like ten minutes."

"Seven minutes. I was watching the clock."

I laughed and rolled my eyes fondly. "Of course you were."

His response was cut off by the sharp ringtone of my cellphone. I dug it from my pocket, confused when I saw that it was Feliciano calling. He never called me.

I clicked the answer button and held it up to my ear, all too aware of Matthew's questioning gaze. "Feli? What's up? Is everything alright?"

Through his tears, Feliciano explained what had happened. My eyes widened and the phone dropped to the floor, the clatter and Matthew's worried questions falling on deaf ears.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Matthew's POV

For once, it was an advantage to be practically invisible. I had never imagined I'd think that, but right then I was incredibly grateful that not many people noticed me. I was afraid for the man who had started as my therapist and was now the sole person I could legitimately trust. Gilbert was pale and shocked, so thoroughly numbed by whatever he had heard on the phone that he either couldn't hear what I was asking or couldn't comprehend it through his terrifyingly-obvious panic. His eyes stood out like drops of blood against his face, which was drawn and so white it could blend in with the bright snow I remembered from my childhood in Canada. He looked twenty years older after a ten-second conversation, and that wasn't something I enjoyed seeing. Gilbert was supposed to jubilant and excited, though gentle. That was not him.

I followed him through the halls, the usually cheery blue seeming greyer and somehow more intimidating than usual. Gilbert's footsteps echoed through the hall. Gilbird, probably distressed by my sudden movement, removed himself from my head and flitted off in the opposite direction. I couldn't really find it in myself to care about losing the cute little friend that I had acquired unintentionally in the first place.

Gil checked out at the front desk, somehow passing as a normally functioning person despite the fact that I could see his walls crumbling, saying something about an emergency visit to the hospital, for personal reasons or family matters or something equally vague. The person at the front nodded and said something falsely sympathetic; Gilbert just nodded numbly. He left and I trailed after him, glad that I had gone completely unnoticed as I exited the building. Technically, I was breaking at least one law by leaving, but I didn't care. After all the times Gilbert had comforted me and helped me through my issues, I figured it was about time to start returning the favor.

Gil didn't even realize I was still with him until we were in his car. He almost jumped out of his skin when he looked over and saw me.

"Mattie! You scared me. Wait a minute… What are you doing? You're not supposed to leave the hospital. It's illegal and we could both get in trouble." I could tell that he was trying to make himself smile, to act calm and collected when he was falling apart.

I gently set a hand on his arm and shook my head. "No. I'm not leaving you alone like this, Gil. Besides, no one will even notice I'm gone. Just drive."

He hesitated and then sighed, nodding and starting the car. The drive was silent, though Gilbert didn't appear to be able to sit still. He was constantly tapping his fingers against the steering wheel or bouncing his leg, nervous energy making his muscles tense and relax, tense and relax, over and over and over again. My hand stayed on his arm, and I did my best to remind him I was there for him.

We pulled up to a regular hospital, the same one I had been sent to before, and parked. Gil's hands clenched and unclenched a few times before he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and took a shaky, slow breath. I unbuckled the seat belt and leaned over, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I could feel him shaking, though he tried to restrain it, and I realized that Gilbert was _scared._ Whatever was going on that made him panic so damn fast and run to the hospital, it was clearly terrifying him.

And that terrified _me._ I wasn't used to seeing Gil like that. He was always some sort of strong, safe, gentle, almost deity figure in my mind. I suppose that was normal, sense he had practically saved my life. But seeing him so weak, shaken to the core and falling apart was scary.

After a few minutes he sat back up, offering me a weak smile and brushing a strand of my hair behind my face reassuringly. We left the car and headed into the building, Gilbert clearly forcing himself not to rush. I reached forward and hesitantly took his hand, trying to offer him some form of comfort and reassurance but not wanting to overstep any boundaries. It was the right thing to do, though, because he squeezed my fingers lightly and didn't pull away.

I tried to ignore the way that my heart fluttered at the gesture as we walked in. It wasn't the time or the place to be thinking about my romantic inclinations toward my therapist, of all people.

I recognized one of the nurses from Hetalia Hospital, Feliciano, sitting in one of the chairs of the waiting room. Usually when I saw him, he was bright and bubbly, though a bit loud and too touchy-feely for my tastes, but right then he was hunched over, looking like he was trying disappear. I could tell that he was crying, with the way his body shook almost violently.

We approached, Gilbert much more gingerly than I. I set a hand on Feliciano's back and he jumped, sniffling and rubbing at the tears on his face in a vain attempt to get them to stop.

"Where is he? What room?" Gil's voice was rough but kind; Feliciano's tears slowed long enough to stutter out directions. He trailed behind us, still crying, and Gilbert had stood outside the door for a good two or three minutes before actually going in.

In the bed was a man that I was almost instantly afraid of. He was bulkier than Gilbert and looked stern, his blue eyes cold but clouded over, probably due to pain meds. I had seen him a few times before, mostly with Feliciano clinging to him, but he had never looked so disheveled. His name was Lud… Ludwig? Something like that.

Gilbert walked up and I hung back, not sure what to do. Ludwig was awake, but Feliciano hadn't come into the room like I was expecting. Instead, he stayed outside, head hung almost guiltily. ;

"Hey, Lud, how are you?"

The blue-eyed man shrugged as best he could, what with his arm in a cast and a brace on his neck. "About as well as I can be after getting hit with a car, Gilbert."

Gil laughed dryly and nodded. "Fair enough."

Ludwig turned his head as far as he could and his eyes narrowed. Suddenly his voice was cold and hard; I shrank back from him as if I could teleport elsewhere.

"Gilbert. Who is that. That looks like one of your patients." It was monotone and a statement rather than a question.

"Lud, what's wrong? It wasn't—"

" _Bringing patients out of the hospital is illegal!_ Gilbert!"

I backed out of the room and shut the door behind me, trembling. I hadn't meant to make things worse, but Ludwig was terrifying. I looked down at my hands; they were shaking.

I felt a tentative hand reach out and touch my arm. I flinched away on instinct before realizing that it was Feliciano. I allowed him to wrap his arms around me, leaning hesitantly into him. Hid touch didn't warm me like Gilbert's did, and his hands were smaller and softer and his hug didn't give me the sense of safety and security that the albino's did.

"I'm sorry… Luddy isn't usually like that. He's really nice, most of the time… it's just the painkillers. He'll be back to normal soon." Feliciano's voice was raw after crying for God only knew how long.

"It's not that big a deal. I'm fine. What about you, though? Are you okay?" My voice was almost as shaky as my hands and the rest of my body once the shock began to set in.

Feliciano sighed and clasped his hands in his lap, looking down at them as if his fingers were the most interesting things in the world. "…I don't know. I mean, it's my fault Ludwig's in the hospital and we just fought so I'm sure he hates me now and he yelled at you so now you're upset and it's all my fault and—"

I gently set a hand on Feliciano's shoulder, cutting him off as tears started to form in his eyes again. "Hold on. Your fault? What makes you think that? It was an accident, Feliciano."

Slowly, the Italian shook his head. "It wasn't. Well, it was, but… I caused it. I—I was angry, so I marched out into the street without looking and there was a car and I didn't see it. L-Ludwig… Ludwig pushed me out of the way. He got hit instead of m-me. It's all my f-fault." Feliciano was sobbing again and I did the first thing I thought of and reached over to pull him close.

"It's not your fault. It was an accident. And besides, would Ludwig really want you to blame yourself? Does he?"

Feliciano shook his head again. I held him, murmuring what I hoped was comforting words in his ear until Gilbert came out and took me back to the hospital.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Gilbert's POV

"Hey, Lud. You feeling any better?" I shut the office door behind me, trying to mask my nervousness. My little brother didn't talk to me at work under any circumstances, unless he could avoid it, so having Feli come get me—in the middle of a session with Matthew, no less—was odd and more than a little nerve wracking.

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you, Gilbert. Sit."

Ludwig never once looked up from his paperwork while he talked to me, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose. I sat on the couch, fidgeting a bit.

"So," Ludwig started, turning his gaze from the paper to me, "tell me something. Was I hallucinating due to the drugs, or did you _actually_ bring a patient out of the hospital with you when you visited me?"

 _Of course._ I had been hoping Luddy would've been too hopped up on painkillers to remember that much, but his memory was annoyingly accurate. It always had been.

I sighed and ran my hands through my hair. "Yes, but before you yell at me or report me or whatever the fuck it is you want to do, let me explain."

Ludwig leaned back in his chair, resting his clasped hands on his stomach as he watched me unwaveringly. I could see why his patients described him as scary so often. "Then talk, Gilbert. I'm all ears."

I explained that Matthew had snuck out without my permission or invitation and that I had only realized he was there when it was too late to turn back. I altered a few details, like the fact that I had actually been grateful that Matthew was there with me, but I mostly stuck to the truth.

Ludwig hummed and rolled his eyes a little, like he was expecting something more from me. "And do you _always_ lose track of your patients so easily?"

I was stunned for a moment before irrational anger started to froth in my chest. "Look, Lud, I know you _think_ I'm an idiot who's completely useless at my job, but I'm _not._ The _only_ reason I didn't notice Matthew was because I was _freaking out over the fact that you were in the hospital!_ Excuse me, Mr. Perfect, for actually giving a shit about my family and worrying when there's even the remote possibility that they could _die."_ I snapped.

He went a little paler at my outburst, but I couldn't really find it in me to be all that upset at the moment. His eyes went a little sad before they were as stone-cold and unreadable as ever. "Well, then, it looks like you're incapable of being civil at the moment. We can talk about this later when you're not so… _distraught_. Just know that it's never a good idea to get this"

If his words hadn't been a dismissal, the way he sat up and resumed his paperwork certainly was. I got up and stormed out of the room, scaring Feli when I burst out of the room. I muttered a brief apology before heading to my own office and plopping in the chair behind my desk with an angry growl. I buried my face in my hands, sighing in frustration.

After a few minutes of silence, the door opened and clicked softly shut. I knew without looking up that it was Matthew. No one else made that little noise when they moved.

A gentle hand gingerly touched my shoulder, like he was afraid I'd explode at the contact. "Gil? Is everything alright?"

I sighed again and leaned back, offering Mattie what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just fought with Ludwig. He's got a stick up his ass, as usual."

Mattie giggled softly and his hand moved down to rest in between my shoulder blades. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

I smiled lightly and shook my head, leaning forward a bit until my head rested against his shoulder. In all honesty, just him being there was making me calmer. I had been kind of a douche, but he sort of deserved it. No one, not even my stuck up, everything-by-the-book brother would be able to help Matthew, hold him and comfort him and make sure he doesn't hurt himself, without getting attached. _No one._ It just wasn't possible. Matthew was just a sweet little momma bird, and really all he needed was a safe place to rest while his wings healed.

Matthew smiled down at me and started stroking his fingers through my hair, making me shiver a little. It was a nice feeling; I couldn't remember the last time someone had actually taken the time to ask and _care_ that I was okay and not just saying that. That was one of the reasons Roderich and I had had so many issues. But Matthew… he was just a big sweetheart who had been through too many things that he just didn't deserve.

On impulse, I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him closer. He squeaked softly and I could practically hear his blush. He was so pale that he really couldn't hide it—not that I could, either. One of the many downsides of being albino. That and the fact that summer time was a bitch for my skin. The number of dick-shaped sunburns that Francis had given me while I was sleeping on a beach was annoying as all hell.

Matthew fit perfectly against me. It was strange, but I didn't mind. He wasn't all skin and bone anymore and he was warm and he liked being hugged. It was odd, though; I wasn't usually a very touchy-feely or clingy person, but then again, Matthew had pretty much turned everything on its head. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes you needed to see things through a different perspective so that the world didn't go stale around you.

I felt him lean his head gently against the top of mine. I smiled softly; the gesture was sweet in a way that I really didn't care if it was platonic or otherwise.

I looked up, Matthew's eyes meeting mine almost shyly. I found myself unconsciously leaning up, and his eyes closed halfway. I could hardly breathe; all common sense had gone out the window.

In a split second, my lips were on his and his eyes were closed and my own were slipping shut. I was half out of my chair, and he was gripping me by the shoulders and I was holding him by the waist and _oh my god._ I was kissing Matthew, and it was the best kiss I had ever had, even though it was a little awkward and a little clumsy and there was too much teeth. He stepped a little closer and his body practically melted into mine. I unconsciously brushed some of his hair behind his ear and he shivered as my fingertips brushed the sensitive skin there.

It was that that snapped me out of my daze. _Fuck._ I was kissing Matthew and he probably wasn't ready for that sort of relationship and _he was my patient_ and it was _illegal_ and—

I pushed him away, albeit gently, my heart pounding for so many reasons my head was spinning. My arms dropped to my sides and his eyes fluttered open, confusion making them shine.

"Gil? What's wrong?" His cheeks were flushed and he looked flustered. It made me want to kiss him again.

Instead, I sank back down into my chair and sighed shakily, putting my head back in my hands. "Matthew. I… I think you need to leave. Please." My voice came out softer than I had intended, but that didn't lessen the way my chest tightened almost painfully at the idea of sending him away.

"W-what? But…" Matthew hesitated for a moment and I thought for a second that maybe he'd refuse. Instead, he sighed softly. "Okay. I'm sorry."

I didn't have to look up to know that he was holding back tears as he left. I could hear it in the wobble of his voice.

The door clicked shut and it sounded horribly final. My hands were shaking—wait, no, my entire body was shaking. I stood up, turned around and slammed my fist into the wall as hard as I could. It didn't do anything but hurt my knuckles. They'd probably be sore for days, and they were most likely bleeding, but I couldn't find it in myself to care at the moment.

I had kissed Matthew. I had kissed him, and he had kissed me back, and I had enjoyed it. But he was my patient. He wasn't supposed to be anything more than a job. And yet… he was. He was so much more. He was my world. My everything. I couldn't do a think about that, no matter how taboo those desires were.

My vision went blurry and my knees gave out. I crumpled to the ground, a hand pressed to my mouth to muffle the noises I made as tears streamed down my face. I didn't know why I was crying. I didn't know why I had kissed Matthew. But I had and it had tilted everything on its side. Maybe Ludwig was right. Maybe getting attached to patients was that bad after all.

I sat like that, hunched over on myself and trying to forget how Matthew had tasted like maple syrup.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Matthew's POV

 _I don't understand._ That was all I could think as I sat on my bed, hugging Kumajiro. Well, more like squeezing the life out of the poor bear. My lips were raw from chewing on them and my nails were bitten down to the quick. I was running out of things I could chew on. I had started rocking back and forth to try to release some of my nervous energy; it sort of worked. I just couldn't for the life of me figure out why Gilbert had pushed me away after he had kissed me.

Kissed me. Gilbert had _kissed me._ I still could barely believe it had happened at all. I hadn't expected to be able to fall for someone so hard or so fast, especially so soon after everything Carlos had done. And yet, there I was, head over heels for Gilbert Beilschmidt and not really caring at all. Gilbert was so incredibly perfect that I couldn't find it in me to be scared. Even though I was scarred and traumatized and emotionally destroyed, he had taken the time and energy to put me back together, piece by piece, and I had enjoyed it.

But… kissing me was something that I had never expected. At the memory of his mouth on mine, I went bright red and pressed my face into the fur on the top of Kumajiro's head, whining softly. My roommate, Vash, looked up from the book he was reading and gave me an almost concerned look.

"You alright? You seem like you're about to explode." He said, his voice his usual near-monotone. I was almost grateful for his emotionlessness; it was one thing that hadn't changed when my world had been tilted on its side.

I nodded a little, still too intimidated by him to answer verbally. He didn't mind. He just went back to his book. The door opened after an almost shaky knock and Feliciano peered in. He looked teary-eyed, which worried me.

"Matthew? Oh, good, you're in here. Um… it's time to go to your counselor's appointment. H-he sent me to walk you there.

The thought of seeing Gilbert again made my heart stutter and speed up in my chest. I vaguely wondered why he had sent Feli, but I shrugged it off. I must've just lost track of time while I was musing.

Feli and I walked for a moment in silence, him sniffling and me still trying not to rip Kuma's fur out in nervousness.

"Is everything okay, Feli? You sound upset?" My voice was kind of shaky but it was strong enough to pass as normal, which I was infinitely thankful for.

He nodded, hesitated, then slowly shook his head. Then he shrugged. "I… I really don't know. I told Luddy something I shouldn't have, and then I ran out and then I got you and I just don't know how to react. I th-think Ludwig hates me now." He snuffled.

I put a hand gently on his back and shook my head. "He doesn't hate you, Feli. _No one_ could hate you, especially not Ludwig. I'm sure you just have to give him a little time to process whatever it was you said, I promise."

Feliciano smiled waveringly. "Thanks, Matthew."

I nodded a bit, but the gentle expression fell from my face when we stopped in front of a door that was definitely not Gilbert's. The plaque on the simple wooden door read _L. Beilschmidt._ That wasn't the right initial.

I looked over at Feliciano; he was wringing his hands nervously. "What's going on? Feli, where's Gilbert? He—He hasn't been fired or anything, has he?" A thousand and one possible scenarios were running through my head as Feli slowly shook his head.

"No, he wasn't… fired. He… Oh, Matthew, I'm so sorry. You were transferred to a different therapist this morning." Feliciano explained in a trembling whisper.

The first thing that hit me was immense, horrible guilt. I had left the hospital even though Gilbert had told me not to, and then I had kissed him. Someone must've found out and reported him and he must've been forced.

Then came the denial. _No, no, no._ Gilbert was the one I could trust. Gilbert was the one that had helped me save myself. Gilbert was who I needed, not his terrifying brother who probably was on the other side of the _L Beilschmidt_ door. I was safe with Gilbert.

And then, finally, unbridled fury. Why had Gil let them transfer me? Or—what if it had been on purpose? What if _Gilbert_ was the one who had willingly transferred me to his brother? I had finally found someone I trusted—someone I loved—and then _that_ happened.

The door opened before I could sort my feelings out enough to respond to Feliciano. Sure enough, the person on the other side of it had been Ludwig Beilschmidt, the man who Gil had visited in the hospital. He was as intimidating as ever, perhaps more so with his hair slicked back and his expression completely emotionless. He was better at stoic than Vash was.

I made a soft whimpering noise that I didn't realize was coming until it was already out of my mouth. Feliciano was suddenly very interested in the nonexistent pattern of the carpet. Ludwig's eyes were fixed on me with a determination that told me he was trying hard not to look at Feliciano.

"Matthew. Come in. I appreciate the fact that you actually showed up, unlike some of the other patients that I've encountered." Ludwig's speech was stiff and very formal, nothing like Gilbert's soft, kind rambling. The office was cold, too; the only furnishings were the desk and uncomfortable, stereotypical therapist couch in one corner of the room.

Ludwig gestured to the couch and sat behind the desk, fixing his icy blue stare on me. It wasn't a good feeling; it was like I was getting my insides x-rayed. I sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, fiddling with Kuma's fur. Those few minutes of silence where Ludwig simply sat and stared at me were scarier and more nerve wracking than my first two weeks in the hospital had been.

"So," Ludwig said after a while, making me jump. "I read through your file already, and Gilbert's notes were very informative. I think we should start with addressing the issue of your ex. Carlos, I believe his name was. Now," Ludwig leaned forward and pressed the tips of his fingers together, watching me with the sort of stare that made small children run crying. "When did the abuse start?"

"I—Um. A-about a y-y-year before h-he…" I trailed off, letting out a choked whimper as I pressed my face against the stuffed bear in my arms. It was hard to even talk to him, and it scared me. I didn't want to go back to that dark, silent, nightmarish place that I had been when I came to the hospital.

"Before he what? Before he tortured you for years on end?" I flinched; Ludwig was blunt and had none of Gilbert's tact or, apparently, ability to sense when someone was anxious.

Slowly, I nodded, and Ludwig hummed noncommittally. He wrote something down and I watched nervously over the top of Kuma's head; I hadn't realize how anxiety-inducing it was to have someone sit there and write about you and not know what they were saying. Suddenly, I found myself incredibly grateful that Gilbert didn't take notes. I knew that he had to have written reports, it was part of his job, but he had never done it while I was sitting in front of him, thank God.

Ludwig turned his terrifying eyes back to me and I whimpered again. "And what exactly did Carlos do to you when you were locked in his basement?"

That question was the end of it for me. In an instant, I was back in that dark, dark room and there was red and silver and I couldn't breathe. I was vaguely aware of someone, probably me, screaming loudly and another voice shouting at me to get it together. Something crash and there was a familiar warm body pressed up against mine, strong, sweet arms wrapped around me and anchoring me to what was real. Somehow, for some reason, Gilbert was there, but I couldn't find it in me to care. I dropped Kumajiro and flung my arms around him, burying my face in his neck as tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. He held me, rocking me gently and murmuring reassuringly into my ear. The familiar feeling of his embrace pulled me from my panic attack as quickly as anything ever had and I clung to him tighter.

I started to be able to make out some of the words that he was mumbling to me. "It's alright, Mattie. You're safe. I'm so, so sorry, Birdie. I promise, I won't ever let you go again. Don't cry, sweetheart."

 _Sweetheart_ was a new pet name and I'd be lying if I said I didn't love it.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Gilbert's POV

I couldn't get Matthew transferred back to my care—once he was gone, that was it, and there was nothing I could do about it, that was how it worked—so I did the next best thing that my conscious would allow. I went to Ludwig's office during their scheduled appointments and Mattie had his therapy sessions with me, while Ludwig took notes or did paperwork or whatever else. It worked out well, especially once Lud had apologized to Mattie for being a douche a few days beforehand. He didn't explain his reason for his behavior to Birdie, but he did explain it to me privately and I could see why what Feli had told him had shaken him so badly. For the first time since he was about ten, I had held Ludwig while he cried into my shoulder. Most people mistook me for the younger sibling—I was less responsible than Luddy and knew how to remove the stick that was supposed to have up my ass for a while so as to actually have fun—but it was times like that when I remembered moments from years and ago, before Ludwig had become so damned independent. It reminded me of when I had been his beloved big brother and he had looked up to me almost as if I was some sort of deity. Of course, that had all ended the instant he found me drunk off my ass when he was eleven—to this day I blame our parents for not hiding the alcohol stash from my temptation—but they were nice memories nonetheless.

Feliciano and Ludwig also managed to get back onto good terms with each other, which both Matthew and I were both glad for. It was painful for everyone to watch people who were normally as close as Luddy and Feli fight like that, so it was a relief to essentially the entire hospital. The two of them making up made it so that Ludwig was less of an ass and Feliciano was less inclined to randomly burst into tears. Neither of those situations were good for anyone, especially not Lud's patients or Feli's obnoxious brother.

As for Matthew and I, well… we successfully avoided the topic of our momentary kiss for a good three and a half weeks. Matthew made steady forward progress in his recovery and only had to take one type of pill in the end, just to make sure that the hallucinations went away for good. That kiss was constantly in the back of my mind, though, and it was hard for me to control myself and not do it again, some days. I didn't know if he thought about it as much as I did, but the memory drove me insane on a daily basis. The feeling of security and warmth and pure bliss that those few, brief moments had given me was something I wanted to feel again and again and again and again, more than I had ever wanted any emotion ever. It was strange, but not unwelcome, to crave something as intangible as a feeling. The memory of his mouth pressed against mine was a good way to fall asleep every night and wake up every morning.

It was getting to the point where I couldn't avoid it anymore, though. There was no way in hell that I could deny the fact that I was completely, utterly in love with Matthew and there was nothing I could do to change it—not that I would even if I could. Mattie was addictive. He was so sweet and kind and gentle and adorable and _ugh._ People always said that no one is perfect, but I knew that was as far from true as possible every time I looked at Matthew. My Birdie was perfect, and no one else could be perfect because they were not Matthew Williams. Try to convince me otherwise, I dare you. I could rant for hours on end about everything good and pure about Mattie.

The only issue with that was whether or not he saw all that in himself, too. I knew that he was self-conscious about the scars that were scattered heavily across every inch of his skin, and I could easily understand why. Matthew wasn't someone who enjoyed pity, and he and I both knew that those scars would elicit a _lot_ of pity from people he knew and random strangers alike. I didn't have an issue with them, and I did my best to make sure that Matthew knew that, but I couldn't help what other people did or said. I wished that I could, though; it would make things so much easier. I knew what it was liked to be stared at for you appearance. After all, albinos weren't exactly common and drew a lot of eyes. Scars like that, though, were newer to Mattie, and he wasn't used to it like I was. It was normal for people to stare at me as I walked by, but Mattie had grown up being invisible. I wasn't entirely sure that that would be the same.

I cursed Carlos' imprisoned, piece of shit soul every time Matthew tugged his sleeves down nervously when he was walking around the hospital, trying to hide the scars on his arms that that bastard had given him. Yeah, if Carlos hadn't done what he'd done, I never would have met Matthew, but to be completely honest, I would rather have not known Birdie if it would've meant Mattie would've been okay. Even though he was getting better, I knew that there were going to be relapses and days when the poor Canadian just _couldn't_ keep the memories away. If it meant getting rid of those days and giving Mattie a relatively normal—how could his life be completely normal with Alfred as his brother, honestly—schizophrenia-free life, I'd give up what we had. It would be reluctant on my part, but I'd do it for his sake.

Matthew _was_ getting better, though, that was no lie. I was trying and failing miserably to forget that as soon as he got to the point where he could function in society, which would no doubt be soon, he'd be out of the hospital. He was a hell of a lot more confident than he had been when he'd arrived, and he was one of the few people who wasn't afraid to call me out on my shit. I liked it, though; it just proved even more thoroughly how incredible and strong-willed he was. I still couldn't understand why anyone would hurt him, whether they were in their right mind or not. At that point, insanity wasn't a valid excuse for ever hurting Birdie.

Even Alfred was impressed at Matthew's progress. He had told me that Birdie was almost completely back to the way that he had been before Carlos—sweet and strong-willed but still somehow quiet enough that he was overlooked by most people. His invisibility was a damned shame, in my mind. He could do so, so much if people would only _see him_ and stand still for a moment to actually listen to what he had to say. I could easily sit and listen to Matthew talk for _hours_. His voice carried just enough of an accent to have a lilting and nearly musical quality to it, and his opinions were strong enough to tilt the planet on its axis. Not many people made me think, but Mattie did it so easily it was almost scary. I'd be in the store and see a shelf of maple syrup and go _Oh, I should get some for when Matthew makes pancakes next._ Or I'd see a picture of a polar bear and think _Mattie would love that._ It was like Birdie was always there, whispering little thoughts into my head. Hell, for all I knew, he could be a fucking psychic and at that point, I wouldn't have cared.

The man who could tilt my perspective on its side could also terrify me to no end. That point was proven very, very efficiently about a week before Matthew's release. Ludwig had just told me that he was arranging the paperwork for Mattie to be let out, and I was simultaneously ecstatic and horrified. On one hand, he'd be back to living a semi-normal life without constant reminders of what he'd been through. On the other… he'd be leaving me, probably for good. After all, I was another reminder of his Carlos-inflicted pain. He most likely wouldn't want that.

What scared me, though, was when I saw him next. I had always excelled at completely ignoring anything that threatened to make my emotional castle that I had so carefully built around myself crumble. Matthew was a walking example of one such "thing." On the other hand, just ignoring him was completely impossible, like trying to ignore a really affectionate, really fluffy kitten; physically impossible to do.

When he walked into my office, though, I instantly knew something was different. His posture was stiff and his eyes hard and determined; the only sign of nervousness was the way that his fingers twisted and untwisted in the fur of the stuffed bear. I spun my chair to face him, smiling in what I hoped was a somewhat reassuring way.

"Hey, Birdie. What's up?"

Matthew took a deep, shaking breath and looked me dead in the eye. "We need to talk, Gil."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Matthew's POV

It took more than I had thought to say that out loud, no matter how much I had psyched myself up for it. Gilbert seemed to understand the gravity of the situation, at least, because he went pale, almost as if he was afraid of something.

"What is it, Mattie?" The question was pointless and I knew he was just trying to stall. I didn't blame him, though; I didn't want to have that conversation any more than he did.

"You know what, Gil." It was supposed to sound firm and confident, but my voice betrayed my nervousness and turned it into something closer to a plea. He sighed and nodded, moving from his chair to sit in one of the beanbags that littered the floor. I sat in one that faced him and drew my knees up close to my chest. Kumajiro sat on the floor between us, and it felt like the stuffed toy was the only thing left that was bridging the gap that that kiss had opened between Gil and I. He had felt too distant for comfort, and I wanted to fix that before I was released. Gilbert was too dear to me for me to just leave it be like that.

We sat awkwardly for a moment, looking everywhere but at each other in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to avoid eye contact and therefore the inevitable conversation. I decided that I would break the silence with the heavy, three-worded truth that I had wanted to vocalize for weeks.

"I love you,"

Gilbert paused; watching me with wide, shocked eyes, then smiled sadly and looked at where his hands were clasped in his lap.

"I love you, too, Matthew. You're an amazing, sweet, beautiful person, and anyone would be lucky to get the chance to so much as look at you." His eyes were fond and my face was heating up steadily. "But," his face darkened a bit, "you're my patient, Mattie. Both of us could get in serious trouble if someone found out about this."

I opened my mouth to argue—I was about to be released; the patient-therapist relationship law or whatever wouldn't be an issue for much longer. He held up my hand to interrupt me before I had said a word. "I know it won't be a problem once you've been released. I know. My bigger concern is that you're not ready." I tried again to interrupt, but he stopped me. "I'm not done, Matthew. I want to do our best to make this work, I really do. But I don't want to be an asshole and push you into something that you aren't emotionally ready for. Think about it, Birdie. You just got away from a relationship with a horrible, horrible man who did awful things to you. I'm your _therapist._ I don't want to keep you from moving on, Mattie. You don't need a constant reminder about what you went through. You've gone through hell and back, Mattie, and you deserve to be able to forget about all of that. Wouldn't I just be an everyday reminder? I don't want to hurt you, in any way."

For the first time since I had met him, Gilbert sounded vulnerable. For the first time, I realized that Gilbert was only human. He had doubts and fears and weaknesses, even though he didn't show them outwardly or, really, ever. He was strong, yes, but I knew better than most that the strongest of people had dark corners of their mind where all their demons hid. Even Gilbert had to have days where he just _couldn't_ , days where he didn't want to get out of bed but he did it anyway for the sake of the people he helped on a daily basis. Briefly, I wondered if I had ever been his reason for going to work on a day like that.

Gil was still staring at his hands, looking almost nervous—thinking back, his expression was closer to terror as he waited for my response. I didn't know what to say; he had a point. I didn't know if I was quite ready for a relationship like that. Carlos' actions were still fresh and just as terrifying in my mind. But it was Gilbert and I knew without a doubt that he wouldn't force it. He was sweet and gentle and supportive and careful. He didn't mistake me for Alfred like Carlos had in the beginning, and he didn't have any of Carlos' brusque rudeness. It was Gilbert, and Gilbert was safe.

"You're right," I said slowly, and I could see Gilbert slump a bit in what was clearly disappointment. "But I don't care."

He looked up almost disbelievingly, and I smiled gently. "I don't care about any of that. You're not Carlos, Gil. You aren't someone I'm afraid of. You're safe for me, Gil. So I don't care if I'm ready or not because I want this. I want us to be _us_. I know I'll be ready someday, even if I'm not now, but until then, I'd like to date you until then, at least low key. So… yeah."

I could feel my cheeks burning, as I trailed off. Gilbert was staring at me and I couldn't read his expression at all. It was a little odd, but I wasn't afraid. I knew even then that I'd never be able to be afraid of Gil.

He leaned forward and I already knew what he was doing. I closed my eyes, reveling in the feeling of his mouth on mine. The kiss was soft and sweet and chaste and short, but it sent tingles down my spine and I was breathless by the time it was over. There was a pink flush along Gilbert's cheekbones when I opened my eyes. He was smiling, though, and it was infectious.

Gil reached up and cupped my cheek with one hand, brushing his thumb beneath my eye; I leaned into the touch. I didn't realize I was crying until Gilbert's thumb swept through a wet patch of the trail of one of my tears. It felt like the action flipped a switch or broke a wall or one of those equally vague similes, and I started crying in earnest, mostly in relief and happiness but I think there was a little bit of fear of the unknown in there, too. Gil drew me close and I pressed my face into the crook of his neck, my sobs becoming muffled as I did so. He murmured soft, soothing sweet nothings into my ear as I cried, his knuckles rubbing lightly over my spine. It was soft and quiet and gentle, everything I needed right then. That was one of the things I loved about Gilbert. He always knew how I needed him to act and adjusted his behavior accordingly. According to Ludwig, he came off as an inconsiderate jackass to most people, but he really was the exact opposite. He was kind and perceptive and gentle and patient, which I'm sure was at least a little bit of what made him such a good therapist.

When my tears stopped, he pulled away. His hand found mine and he slotted our fingers together before squeezing my hand gently. I returned the gesture, nearly giddy with the action. It felt almost more intimate to hold Gilbert's hand than it did to kiss him because of the pure adoration in Gil's expression. The feel of his gaze made me blush, though I didn't look away.

"I love you." Gilbert's gentle, almost hesitant tone made me smile. He was careful of me in a way Carlos had never bothered to be, and to be completely honest, it was adorable.

"I love you, too." He returned my smile and pressed a soft sweet kiss to his forehead.

We sat like that for a good ten minutes, just relaxing in each other's presence. It was nice, and I love it. Gil was one of those people who found the silence soothing and didn't feel the need to talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk until no one could hear anything but their words. Those people tended to have something to hide. Gil, though—to me, at least, he was an open book. There were things that I didn't know about him, sure, but I knew that he'd tell me someday. That's just the kind of person he was.

We talked for an hour or so about plans for when I was released. It was decided that I'd live with Gilbert, at least at first, though I doubted that I'd move out any time soon. He promised candlelight dinners and shopping trips and cuddles and flowers and beaches and so many things that I didn't think most people could remember, much less actually do. It was Gilbert, though, and I was starting to believe that anything was possible.

A tiny part of me was still whispering maliciously to me, though it was different than the voices that my schizophrenia had caused; it was really just my subconscious doubts coming through and voicing themselves. It kept saying that as long as Carlos' shadow was hanging over me, I'd never be able to fully commit myself to my relationship with Gilbert.

I made the decision in a split second. As Gil was walking me back to my room, I smiled up at him and said, "I have a favor to ask."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19: Matthew's POV

The car ride was silent and a worried tension radiated from Gilbert's body. If the way he gnawed on his lower lip wasn't an indication he was concerned, then the way his knuckles tensed and relaxed over and over on the steering wheel and the way there wasn't any music playing was.

It had been almost two weeks since I had been released, and I had finally gotten Gil to agree. It had taken some persuasion, but he had reluctantly said it was alright and that lead to the horribly tense trip.

It wasn't like I was completely unaffected. The closer we got, the more nervous I was, until it felt like my intestines had twisted themselves into knots. Memories came in floods to the point that I was beginning to shake. It was then that Gilbert reached over and took my hand, the action calming me down a fair amount. The solid feel of his hand in mine grounded me and made sure that I stayed in the present.

We pulled up to the curb and Gilbert parked the car, giving me a concerned glance as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Are you sure you want to do this, Mattie? We don't have to."

I took a deep breath and nodded resolutely. There was no way that I was backing out then. He sighed a bit and nodded, getting out of the car. I did the same. He walked around and took my hand, giving it a soft squeeze. I returned the gesture, smiling a bit. He didn't smile back, but I knew it was just because he was worried. He didn't need to be, really, but I could easily understand why he was.

I paused at the foot of the driveway, looking up at the house. Gilbert stands beside me, hand protectively tight around mine. The building itself was the image of nonthreatening—a pale yellow with pretty blue trim. Nothing scary about it, not in broad daylight with a warm breeze on my face and birds chirping here and there. And yet, I knew what had happened inside. I knew what I'd been through in that house.

I took another breath to steady myself and marched up to the front door determinedly. Gil trailed a little bit behind me, looking around warily. He knew what had gone on in that house, just as well as I did. Well, maybe not quite as well, but he knew well enough to have a valid reason to be concerned.

My hand was shaking lightly as I fit the slightly rusted key from beneath the doormat into the lock. The metal felt colder than I remembered, but I couldn't tell if it was because I was paranoid and freaked out or because it hadn't been moved for several months. I didn't remember the door creaking as I opened from before, either, but again, that could have been caused by my high-strung nerves or months and months of disuse.

The floor didn't creak; there weren't any creepy shadows. The sunlight filtering in through the windows lit up the house nicely, and the only sign that it wasn't like any other house was the dust that puffed up beneath my and Gilbert's footsteps and swirled in the rays of light.

Gilbert took my hand again and I squeezed it gratefully. It was eerily silent, and my breath sounded harsh and seemed to echo off the walls. The thing that weirded me out the most was that everything was exactly how it had been when I was carried out. Nothing had been touched. There were even still dirty dishes in the sink. I knew that upstairs would be a different story, since Alfred had gone to the bedroom to get me some clothes when I went to stay at the hospital. Well, hospitals, but Alfred hadn't known I'd be going to the psychiatric one when he went to get me clothes.

I walked past the kitchen, past the stairs to the upper floor, and stopped. On the side of the staircase opposite the kitchen was a door. It was a normal door, nothing special to any random person walking by it. I had only really looked at it once, and I had honestly been too afraid to study it in any detail. I noticed now that there were several long, shallow scratches on the side of the door where it opened and I felt sick. Did that mean that Carlos had done what he did to me to people before me? I hoped not. I wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even my nonexistent enemies.

Gilbert removed his hand from mine long enough for him to come up behind me and wrap his arms around my waist. I leaned into his sturdy warmth, smiling softly and closing my eyes as he rested his chin on my shoulder.

"You don't have to do this, Birdie. If you're not ready, you don't have to force yourself into this, okay?"

I nodded then pulled from his embrace reluctantly. "I know, Gil. I'm fine, really. Just nervous."

He nodded and twined his fingers with mine again. Together, we took a step toward the door, then another, then another. Slowly, inch by inch, we got closer and closer until I reached out and my fingers brushed the cold metal of the doorknob. I half expected it to burn me or for memories to make me pull back like it always happened in the movies, but it didn't. Nothing happened. My fingertips stayed pressed against the doorknob, slowly warming up the metal with my body heat.

Everything seemed to stop, and I felt numb. I don't know how long I stood there for, but I did eventually gather up the courage to grab the doorknob and twist it, letting the door creak open of its own accord. Gil stepped back to let it past, then stood behind me as a rush of cool, musty air rushed up from the basement.

I didn't realize I was trembling until Gilbert took a half step closer to my side and squeezed my hand reassuringly. I couldn't see more than five steps down the stairs, which I knew from too many times listening to Carlos' footsteps were eleven steps long. Gilbert had pulled his phone from his back pocket and was using the flashlight app to try to look further in, and it did work to an extent.

We went down, and I shivered as I both felt and heard the soles of my shoes hit cold concrete. It was still too dark to see anything, but I could hear Gil grabbing at the cord that would let him turn on the lights. There was a soft click and the old light bulb in the ceiling flickered on.

It wasn't a sight I could ever prepare myself for. Right across from me, a few steps away, were a set of four heavy iron shackles sunk into the stone, the floor and wall where they sat splattered darkly with what I knew was my own blood. I felt sick. The room suddenly felt much colder, like the air was trying to suck the heat out of me. Shadows began to shift slightly, and I felt like I couldn't breathe.

I knew it was the beginning of a relapse. I knew it, and the only crystal clear thought in my mind was _it's not real._ It wasn't real, and Carlos was in prison for the rest of his life, and Gilbert was with me, and I was safe. Gilbert would keep me safe.

I stood there for I don't know how long, shaking slightly as I fought off the relapse. When I knew it was gone for good, I couldn't help but smile. Smiling turned to giggling, which turned to laughing, which turned to crying happily. I could barely believe it. I was free of Carlos, so completely and utterly free that he couldn't even hurt me in memory when I was standing in the room I had been through so much hell in. Gilbert gently pulled me close, his warm, loving support surrounding me like a soft blanket on a cold day. It felt amazing.

After a few minutes, I stopped crying, and he lead me back up the stairs. I paused for a moment, though, when I heard a soft scratching at the glass door in the back. It felt like my heart stopped. I froze for a moment, then rushed to the back and flung open the glass door that lead to the patio. I was almost instantly knocked down and something warm and wet started dragging itself repeatedly up my cheek.

I laughed, pushing playfully at the heavy, furry shape on top of me as Gilbert ran into the room, panicked. Eventually, I was able to sit up and the giant white dog that had jumped me sat on the floor in front of me, thumping his tail against the floor enthusiastically. I was still giggling.

"You big lump of fur, how long have you been waiting there for me to come back?" I felt like crying again as I wrapped my arms around its neck and buried my face in its fur.

Gilbert knelt next to me, watching the dog wearily. "Is that a big dog or a small bear?"

I giggled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "It's a stray dog I used to feed. Carlos never liked it, but I did it anyway. He's too much of a sweetheart to abandon. He must've come by every day since Carlos locked me in the basement, waiting for food."

Gilbert smiled a bit and held out his hand to the dog. It sniffed his hand for a moment before licking excitedly at his hand. I laughed.

"Does he have a name?"

I shook my head; I had never really taken the time to think of a name for him. I smiled, then, thinking of the stuffed animal that had anchored me to reality through so much and had brought Gil and I so close.

"No, but I think I'll call him Kumajiro."

Gilbert paused and grinned, looping an arm around my shoulder. I was lighter than I had been in a long, long time. Right then, I knew without a doubt that no matter what happened from then on, I would be fine.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20: Gilbert's POV: Epilogue

"Wake up, Gil,"

I made a noise that was something to the effect of _mmmmrrrrr-nooooo._ I heard Matthew laugh as I buried my face deeper in the pillow.

"Come on, get up, lazy bones. If you don't get up, you don't get pancakes. _And_ I'll send Kuma in to lick your head."

I groaned and rolled out of bed, leaning forward to kiss Mattie on the cheek as I stood. As much as I wanted to stay in bed, preferably with Matthew and cuddles and as many blankets as I could find, but the threat of no pancakes was too terrifying. That, and dog slobber was a _bitch_ to get out of my hair when it had been there for a while. The first and only time I had let Kumajiro lick my head, I had spent an hour trying to un-clump my hair in the shower. Never again.

I showered in what was probably record time, driven by the smell of Matthew's cooking. Even after five years of living together, and two of being happily married, it was the most heavenly smell I could ever think of.

I nearly killed myself falling down the stairs in my rush to get to the source of that amazing smell—pancakes—which made Matthew giggle as he turned and saw me sprawled face-down on the hardwood floor. I picked myself up and ran my hair through my still-damp hair, trying to regain what little of my dignity was left. Of course, with Mattie, that was never an issue. He'd put up with my weirdness for five years, so I doubted it would be that big a deal later.

He kissed my cheek as I sat down and he put a plate of fresh pancakes in front of me. Of course, a gift like his cooking deserved proper return, so I pulled him down for a proper kiss. He smiled at me when the kiss broke and sat down beside me to eat his own breakfast.

I loved living with Matthew. He was such a sweetheart all the time, though he could be almost annoyingly sassy and wasn't afraid to call me out on my bullshit or tell me when I was being a jackass. I loved him all the more for it, though. We'd had our rough patches over the years, but we got over them pretty fast and it just brought us closer.

At one point, we had headed to the local prison and he had visited Carlos. I had been reluctant and tried to talk him out of it, of course—why wouldn't I be worried about him seeing the psychopath ex that had locked him away for years—but he had smacked the top of my head lightly like he always did when I was being an idiot and told me that he needed to do it. I'd gone with him, of course. Just in case.

Carlos had been… nothing like I expected, in all honesty. He had been sweet, really, and had seemed truly apologetic about what had happened. He hadn't made any move to hurt Mattie, either—really, he hadn't even seemed to touch him unless Matthew initiated it. Matthew, with his saint-like patience, had just smiled and said he forgave him. It had obviously meant a lot to the Cuban, and Matthew had left after promising to visit again when he had the time. Carlos didn't seem to harbor any ill will toward me, either, which was good because he looked like he could probably beat the piss out of me if he wanted to. He had actually told me that he hoped I'd treat Matthew better than he did, and seemed to have meant it. I assured him that there was no way I was voluntarily hurting Mattie in any way, shape, or form. They had both smiled at that, and my words had earned me a kiss on the cheek from Birdie. I'm not ashamed to admit that I blushed. It's just that I'm albino that my cheeks go red so easily. That's all.

Matthew had gotten a job at Hetalia Psychiatric, too, in the children's ward with Tino and Berewald. He worked well with the kids, and I loved dropping by to visit at lunch. I'd often find him letting the kids pet his hair or playing house with a group of them, but my favorite times were when I walked in and saw Matthew sitting on the floor reading with children lying all around him. It was just so cute and domestic that I couldn't help but smile.

That's when I remembered the reason that Matthew seemed a little more jittery than usual that morning: that afternoon, we planned to finish off the paperwork and bring home two three-year-old twin girls, Amelia and Madeline, from the foster home that Alfred and his Russian fiancée, Ivan, ran. He was excited. I was, too, though. Matthew was great with kids, and both of the twins loved him immensely. Even Madeline, who Alfred had said was usually shy and withdrawn—I had immediately thought of when I first met Mattie when he had said that—was a giggling ball of energy around him, to match her outgoing, over excitable sister. It was adorable to watch him and the girls play together, and I could never stop smiling long enough to act tough. Luckily, everyone knew I wasn't that impressive, so it wasn't a huge concern.

Our life was far from calm. Then again, we both worked at a psychiatric hospital. When were things ever calm there? Let me tell you, the answer to that is _absolutely never._ It was normal, though, and somewhat comforting. It got pretty bad for a while, what with Ludwig coping with Feliciano's… situation. He was still touchy about it, but at least he had started talking again. That was always a plus.

Matthew was happy, though, and that's all that really mattered to me. He loved his job, he loved his life, and it was amazing. I'll never forget the expression he made when I proposed to him. Mattie's eyes had been so full of joy and shock and such a pure, adoring brand of love that the image had burned itself permanently into the back of my eyelids. I didn't mind, though; anything involving Matthew was always welcome to be permanent in any aspect of my life. Matthew had been just as stunning at our wedding. He had laughed a little at seeing me in a dress—I blame Francis and Antonio entirely for _that_ fiasco, even if I had looked amazing in yards and yards of white silk and satin and fabrics I still don't know the name of—but by the time it was over he was crying happily into my shoulder while we drove home. I loved him so much it hurt sometimes.

Francis had gotten better, too. It had been a relief to know that he had gotten released, and Toni and I had both been expecting a relapse. True to Arthur's reputation, though, he hadn't even once relapsed. There had been close calls, sure, but it never once happened. He and Arthur seemed to get along relatively well, though no one was entirely sure how they had ended up dating in the first place, much less married. They were on their honeymoon, then, and I had made a clear mental note to ask Francis who topped when they got back.

Antonio and Lovino were due to be married in a week, and had gotten Amelia and Madeline to be their flower girls, and I was Toni's best man. Matthew had been asked to be Lovino's, and he had agreed readily and happily. Well, that was mostly Toni, because Lovi was too busy pretending to be grumpy about the whole situation. We all knew he wasn't, though. It was easy to see through, what with the way he kept fiddling happily with the ring on his finger and the way his cheeks went red whenever he glanced up at Antonio's smile. He kept muttering about how lucky he was, too, though that was both of them. It got annoying after a while, but no one had the heart to shut them up. Lovino was also, according to Roderich—he was the main wedding planner for most of these weddings, since he continuously found new and increasingly creative ways to pull off an absolutely stunning wedding for very cheap—a very fussy bride, and Mattie told me that Lovi was terrified of the commitment but figured he'd be fine since it was Toni he was marrying. They'd gotten to be close over the years, and I couldn't say I was surprised. Somehow, they got along better than me and Franny and Toni, some days. Then again, I figure that they were able to bond over their shared time in the hospital, and the fact that they were both married or engaged to their ex-therapist. I tried not to think too much on that, though, because that brought back less than pleasant memories of stormy nights and too many tears and panic attacks. That, and remembering that Matthew had once been nothing but a job to me made me a little queasy with guilt, so I just avoided reminding myself of that as much as physically possible.

All in all, I was happy. Nothing was perfect, not yet, and I knew that there would probably never be a time when everything _was_ perfect and everyone was completely content. Ludwig was still recovering, and Lovino was still temperamental beyond belief, and I was still kind of an ass, and Francis and Arthur were still at each other's throats, and Mattie was still invisible to most people, but it was okay. We were getting there. Someday, we'd get there. Not immediately, but someday, because Ludwig was getting better, slowly but surely, and Antonio was balancing Lovi out, and Birdie was taming my more annoying habits, and Francis and Arthur were getting closer and closer on a daily basis against all odds and the fact that their personalities still didn't quite fit, and Mattie was still absolutely perfect and it was just a loss for those who ignored him. Everything about my life was perfect, and I knew that I wouldn't care about what happened in the future as long as I held the memories of us, happy and smiling and completely content, close. I took pictures at every chance I got, to make sure that Mattie and I would remember every little detail possible. Every time we get together in a large group, I can't help but smile as I look around at them. We've all come so far, and I can't say I'm not proud. Everyone had been through so much, but they moved past it and essentially gave fate a giant middle finger. It was fun. I enjoyed giving life a resounding _fuck you_ to the face.

Watching Matthew bounce around the kitchen, cleaning out of pure nervous energy, I knew exactly how I wanted to spend the rest of my life: with Matthew and Amelia and Madeline, together and, preferably, happy, even though I knew life would try to screw us over. It always did.

And we always pulled through, no matter what, me and my Birdie.


End file.
